


Whispers in Her Hair

by Indygodusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apologies, Basilisks, Developing Friendships, F/M, Growing Up, Hermione learns to love flying, Hogwarts Era, House Politics, Misunderstandings, Nobody is perfect, Quidditch, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter, Snakes, friendship is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 109,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indygodusk/pseuds/Indygodusk
Summary: In Slytherin, Harry can become someone powerful and respected. It’s hard to make friends, especially friends in a rival house, but exchanging flying lessons for tutoring is a good excuse. No one needs to know the truth, that Harry’s interest in Gryffindor Hermione Granger starts because of an obsession with her hair and curiosity over her confidence with snakes. Harry makes some mistakes along the way, struggles with pride, and learns that whoever said friendship was easy was almost certainly lying. Once he figures out that easy is irrelevant, he starts taking steps to make sure everyone gets what they deserve.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 129
Kudos: 378





	1. First Year - the Snake

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friend! This is an AU Harry Potter fanfic with an eventual Harry/Hermione pairing. The theme is SNAKES and it will be long (because this is me writing here). I have no idea how long, I just know it will definitely not be shorter than 50-100k depending on my muse and energy level (EDIT- it has gotten longer. Lots longer, lol). I update weekly. Originally this was supposed to be a short Halloween story, but I got too excited with all of the possibilities and things exploded. I also joined the Harmony facebook group, which keeps planting ideas in my head for good or ill. For this story, Harry is in Slytherin and Hermione has a secret in her blood. Quidditch will feature prominently for at least some of it. Harry's dynamic with the people and philosophy of Slytherin House will be explored. Most of the story will happen at Hogwarts (I think). As always, there will be a happy ending, but the characters will have to work to get there. If you find yourself hating it, please hit the back button and leave. Everyone naturally enjoys different things, but I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. However, I do want to know your questions, any mistakes I make that aren’t obviously because this is an AU, and what you are liking in the story. I especially want to know if you are having fun reading. Enjoy!  
> Many thanks to my betas Iforgottocall and dizzysappedweak! My writing is better because of their efforts. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Harry might’ve never become friends with Hermione Granger if it hadn’t been for the snake. Of course he’d seen her around—it was hard not to since he sat behind her wild curls in several classes, besides which when a teacher asked a question she was always the first to eagerly thrust her hand high in the air—but he hadn’t talked to her since she’d fixed his glasses on the train. She had been sorted into Gryffindor, after all, and he into Slytherin.

Slytherins didn’t talk to Gryffindors, much less female Gryffindors. Not unless there was teasing involved and Harry wasn’t interested in bullying anyone. He’d gotten enough of being bullied growing up. He wasn’t about to start bullying others, not even if it got him the friends and belonging he’d always yearned for. Harry never wanted to look in the mirror and see Dudley or Uncle Vernon looking back at him, much less the icy self-absorption in Aunt Petunia’s eyes. No, Harry wasn’t going to be that kind of Slytherin, though he did want to be someone important that other people respected and looked up to.

His house traits were ambition, cunning, leadership, and resourcefulness, which all sounded pretty great. The Sorting Hat had also tacked on the phrase “at any cost,” but for Harry, some costs were too high and he’d decided to reject that part as only being opinion and not mandatory. Besides, someone said the hat had belonged to Godric Gryffindor, who’d had a grudge against Salazar Slytherin and probably infected his hat with his sour grapes. 

Just after sunrise one morning a few weeks after school started, the first year Slytherin and Gryffindor students were all standing outside one of the greenhouses waiting for Professor Sprout to come and unlock the door for Herbology. It was mostly quiet because everyone was cranky and tired from being up so early, so Granger’s voice really carried when she exclaimed, “Oh! Where did you come from?” Curly hair sliding over her shoulder, Granger put her hands on her knees and leaned forward to look at something on the ground. 

Seconds later, a green and brown patterned snake came slithering out onto the path, stopping in a patch of sunlight. He was smaller than the snake Harry had talked to at the zoo, not even the length of Harry’s arm. Nevertheless he moved with fearless confidence when confronted with twenty humans all twenty to thirty times his size. Harry found it very admirable, appealing even. The snake raised his head, looked around at the waiting students, and flicked his tongue as if asking what they thought they were doing standing in his way so early in the morning. Harry felt a spurt of disappointment at not hearing the snake actually speak like last time. Maybe he had just imagined the snake speaking back to him at the zoo.

But then the snake raised his head and hissed, “ _Move asss-ide. I’m cold._ ” 

Eyes wide, Harry stepped closer. That had definitely sounded like words.

“You’re a pretty boy, aren’t you?” Granger cooed, for some reason acting like she hadn’t heard the snake say anything. “What are you up to?”

“Who are you talking to, Granger?” asked Draco. When they’d first arrived he’d pushed his way past everyone to the front of the line because he wanted to be the first one inside the greenhouse. When he’d ended up surrounded by the Gryffindor girls instead of fellow Slytherins he’d just given a grumpy frown, leaned against the greenhouse wall, and yawned, seemingly too tired to complain about it. 

Sighing, Hermione straightened up and gestured. “The snake of course.”

“What?” Draco craned his neck around her and the other girls to look down. Everyone followed his glance. The snake twisted sinuously in the air, scales gleaming in the early morning sunlight. He flicked his tongue and looked back at Draco.

“Snake!” Draco cried, scrambling back, arms windmilling.

As if his words had shattered a bubble, screams filled the air as students scattered like dropped marbles. Draco, Lavender Brown, and Parvati Patil cowered together on top of the bin next to the door of the greenhouse, Draco’s slicked back blond hair almost disappearing beneath the black sleeve of Parvati’s robe as they attempted to climb over each other to get even higher off the ground, all three shrieking like rusty hinges on a screen door.

Harry put a hand over his mouth to hide a snicker and looked around. He and Granger were the only ones not running away.

“Oh, honestly!” Shaking her head with a loud huff, Granger reached out and, without hesitating, plucked the snake off the ground, holding it just behind the head and allowing it to coil around her wrist.

“Are you mental!?” Ron Weasley exclaimed from where he watched around the corner of the greenhouse, his face almost as red as his hair. “You’re going to get bit and die!”

“Kill it before it gets the rest of us!” Draco cried, face sandwiched between Lavender’s and Parvati’s shoulders from where he’d pulled them in front of himself. The girls were staring at their roommate with horrified eyes.

“No, don’t,” Harry exclaimed involuntarily.

His words were drowned out by Vincent and Greg, who’d started chanting, “Kill it, kill it, kill it!” Those two always parroted whatever Draco had to say.

Mouth pursing and curls practically standing on end, Granger pulled the snake to her chest and glared around. “You’d think you Slytherins would be better about snakes, considering it's the symbol of your house.” 

Faltering, the chanting boys looked to Draco for direction. 

“That’s— that’s not the same,” Draco said unsteadily after having been pushed off the bin by Lavender and barely managing to land on his feet. Strands of gelled blond hair stuck up from his head like a cockatoo.

“Snakes are perfectly safe as long as you’re knowledgeable, respectful, and careful,” Granger lectured, nose in the air before looking down at her captive. “Now where should I put you where you won’t get into any trouble?” 

“ _I was going to the big rock behind the greenhouse,_ ” Harry heard the snake grumble, or at least he thought he did, but once again, no one else seemed to be reacting to his voice. 

Granger was looking in the wrong direction altogether, so Harry, feeling strangely nervous, stepped forward. “That big rock behind the greenhouse looks warm.” 

Granger flashed him a bright smile. It was a nice smile and her front teeth weren’t that big, no matter what Draco said. “At least one of you snakes knows what you’re talking about. Thanks, Potter,” she said, which made him stand taller as she went to release the snake where he’d suggested. Harry watched them go, wondering if the snake would speak again and if Granger would hear it this time.

“Yeah, thanks, Potter,” Blaise teased in a high-pitched voice, blinking exaggeratedly as he nudged Harry and pursed his lips. Expression souring, Harry nudged him back. Their shoulders pressed tight as each strained to topple the other over. Being bigger and taller, Blaise started to win, so Harry shot out his fingers and tickled his opponent’s side, causing Blaise to flinch back and almost fall over. 

“Tickle attacks are cheating!” Blaise laughed, holding his side and staying out of reach. 

“Not if they help me win,” Harry grinned and flexed his fingers, having learned that lesson rather quickly in Slytherin. 

Of the Slytherin boys, Blaise Zambini was the friendliest and Harry’s best mate so far. Theo Nott was a bit more reserved, but nice enough. Draco Malfoy blew hot and cold depending on the day, sometimes acting like Harry was his best friend and other times his bitter rival, always keeping Harry on his toes. It would be easier if he could just hate Draco, but Draco knew all sorts of interesting things and was loads of fun when he wasn’t being an arrogant prat. Harry wanted to be friends with Draco. However, keeping Draco friendly and humble wasn’t easy with the way Greg Goyle and Vincent Crabbe, the last two boys in their dorm, followed Draco around like he was their king and practically begged him to boss them around. 

Greg and Vincent were chunky, slow-witted, and prone to shoving around smaller kids. Unsurprisingly, Harry was one of those smaller kids. When he unexpectedly caught sight of them coming his way, especially during that first week at Hogwarts, he found himself lowering his head and shrinking down, as if it was Dudley lumbering towards him instead. He hated that they could make him feel like that because having magic was supposed to be his ticket to freedom, safety, and respect. Whenever it happened he found himself wanting to retreat from eating in the Great Hall surrounded by staring strangers and hide out in an unused classroom eating the apples and rolls he’d learned from a young age to always squirrel away in his bag, except that Harry didn’t want to be the kind of person who had to hide away anymore. At Hogwarts he was going to be someone different and better. He was determined to be better.

Luckily Greg and Vincent had mostly stopped bothering Harry as much after they’d gotten into a big fight last week. He’d been doing okay trying to just keep his head down and avoid their pinches and shoves, but then he’d caught them tormenting Hedwig in the Owlery and lost his temper completely, attacking them wildly and ignoring the pain from their fists until they’d both retreated. It had somehow scared the boys, though they’d still left him with a bloody lip and several big bruises while he’d barely scratched them. His refusal to act hurt or tell on them to the teachers afterward earned their respect. Now when he came upon one of them alone they were sometimes even nice to him, though Greg more than Vincent. 

It had taken a few days for Harry to notice, but as soon as he was no longer at the bottom of the pecking order, everyone in Slytherin started treating him better, even the older students in his house. Status was something they all seemed to pay attention to. If Harry was going to succeed here, he’d have to start doing the same.

Professor Sprout arrived before Harry and Blaise could resume their friendly scuffle and unlocked the greenhouse door. “Alright class, everyone inside. Hurry up, now.” Blaise fell in by Harry’s side, tussle forgotten as they went into the humid greenhouse, fanning their robes at the heat.

When class ended, Harry found himself walking back to the castle just behind Granger’s bouncing curls. He’d never met anyone with curly hair like hers, but had once overheard her telling someone that it was common in Greek families like her mother’s. Although wild and bushy, the curls looked soft and were made up of so many different shades of brown that Harry kept finding new hues whenever he looked. 

Sitting behind her in class, he sometimes had to fight the itch in his fingers. He didn’t want to be weird, but sometimes he thought about secretly reaching out and touching one to see what her hair really felt like. Other times he had the strangest urge to try and organize the chaos, wanting to lift the perfect spirals to the top and away from their crazier sisters. It may be an unpopular opinion amongst fellow Slytherins like Draco, but Harry liked her hair. If nothing else, it kept him entertained during Professor Binn’s droning lectures during History of Magic.

As he watched Granger walking alone back to the castle, the other Gryffindors keeping their distance, he thought about speeding up a bit to join her. Maybe he could ask how Granger got so comfortable handling snakes. It seemed like a great excuse to finally talk to her and maybe even become friends. Considering how smart she was, maybe she’d also know why he could hear snakes talking when no one else seemed to.

However, just then Draco popped up, followed as always by Vincent and Greg. “So Potter, I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s your favorite position in Quidditch and which team do you follow?” 

“For the hundredth time, Draco, just call me Harry, and what’s Quidditch? Some type of sport?”

Draco stared at him in horror and pressed a hand to his chest. “Potter— _Harry_ —please tell me you’re joking.” On seeing Harry’s blank face, Draco groaned and staggered to the side theatrically before waving his arms wildly to gather the other Slytherin boys. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he hollered, “Potter doesn’t know about Quidditch and needs another intervention!” 

Everyone on the path turned to look at Harry like he was a freak. He hated it.

“What? That’s just sad,” Theo said, shaking his head.

“Totally tragic, mate!” Blaise exclaimed. 

No matter how useful these interventions eventually ended up being, Harry hated it when Draco publicly called for one and made him a figure of pity, especially because he half-suspected that Draco was purposely trying to make him feel ignorant as a power play to make himself look better in contrast.

Even some of the Gryffindor boys got in on the action on hearing the topic was Quidditch, talking over each other and acting out the different positions in concert with the Slytherins. Just like in the Muggle world, sports were both unifying and divisive. The brief truce ended when Weasley and Draco got into a fight over whether the Falcons or Cannons had better keepers. In all the commotion Harry got distracted and completely forgot about his plan to befriend Granger.

* * *

Later that night while hanging out in the common room studying and competing to see who could balance a chair on two legs the longest without falling over, Harry looked over at one of the many medieval tapestries blanketing the black stone walls of the dungeon and saw a head of wild curls, though the curls were snakes instead of hair. It reminded him quite suddenly of Granger. “Huh.” Distracted, he lost his balance and his chair slammed forward onto all four feet, which was jarring but not as bad as Vincent, who’d fallen backwards and gotten a goose egg on the back of his head. 

“Hah, I win!” Draco gloated, throwing his hands up in the air just as his chair lost the fight with gravity and fell forward too.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Harry would’ve had it if he hadn’t let himself get bored and distracted.” Looking between the tapestry and Harry, he arched a brow. “So what’s so special about Aglaia and the Gorgons?”

In the first panel of the tapestry, titled _Aglaia the Unforgiving Bargains with the Gorgons and Creates the Draught of Living Death_ , a dumpy young witch in green and silver Slytherin robes (presumably Aglaia) was surrounded by a group of laughing and pointing young men. One of the smirking men had yellow-green magic streaming from his wand and was obviously in the act of hexing her. The second panel showed Aglaia with a green scarf over her eyes floating a hogtied man over to a coven of Gorgon, creatures from Greece with snakes for hair and hideous faces that turned anyone who looked at them into stone. Nothing was known about the males or how they reproduced, but female Gorgons, Medusa being the most famous, were said to be extremely vindictive and take vicious pleasure in punishing men who hurt women, regardless of species. The blood of a Gorgon had powerful magical properties to both hurt and heal but was almost impossible to obtain. Most who tried never returned.

The female Slytherin prefect who’d given the first years a tour and explained about Gorgons and the tapestry had taken great relish in emphasizing how violent and vindictive a woman could be when crossed. The boys had all been biddable as lambs for the rest of her tour, just in case. In the weeks to come, Harry had learned that while some Slytherin boys could be mean, the girls were by far the scariest people in his house. They were less likely to go out of their way to bully someone or pull a prank, but when offended their retaliation was painful, humiliating, and public.

The third panel in the tapestry showed a blindfolded Aglaia laughing and holding out an open vial for the blood dripping from the hand of a Gorgon labeled Medusa. Unlike the other Gorgons, Medusa didn’t look ugly or evil, she looked like a very pretty young woman with a head full of mischievously curling bronze and gold snakes, a smile curving her pink lips, and eyes glinting with wicked humor, as if the two women were sharing a good joke instead of filling a vial of blood. In the scene's background, the other Gorgons ripped the shackled man apart.

The tapestry went on to show Aglaia pouring the blood onto an orange-stemmed plant in her garden, turning the greenish-yellow peapods reddish-black. She harvested the plant, brewed a pink potion, and poured several drops into a wine bottle. The men from the first scene drank the wine from golden goblets and fell to the floor, their waxy faces appearing next in their beds, unable to be awakened by their wailing families. 

The final image showed a mature and confident Aglaia posing triumphantly in her potions lab. Chests along the walls overflowed with golden galleons and rich treasures, but Harry always thought her most important treasure was shown by the way the artist had highlighted the gaudy wedding ring on her wand hand and the sunlit portrait of herself and her beaming husband holding the hands of two happy children on the wall at her back. The unconscious body of the man who’d hexed her in the first scene sprawled at her feet, desperate-faced people knelt on the floor below him with clasped hands raised in pleading, and more people patiently waited outside the doors with their heads bowed in respect. The bubbling cauldrons on either side of the scene held the pink Draught of Living Death and its yellow antidote.

Some days, Harry found Aglaia very inspirational.

Remembering Blaise’s question, Harry cleared his throat and gestured at the woman in the middle panel. “Today’s class with the snake made me think of Medusa.” 

“What, that she’s hot?” Miles Bletchley asked in passing as he snatched one of the licorice wands from the pile on the table in front of Theo. “Puberty hitting early, little Harry?” Licorice hanging out of his mouth, the fifth-year shot a teasing grin over his shoulder. 

Harry felt his face turn red.

Vincent and Gregory guffawed and Blaise snorted, while Theo glared at Miles and pulled the package of licorice under the open cover of his textbook.

Staring at Aglaia’s tapestry, Draco tilted his head to the side, wrinkled his nose, and shrugged. “Maybe she’d be hot if she wasn’t a dirty creature with snakes for hair.” 

“Snakes or not, tapestry Medusa is hot and has curves in a-a-all the right places,” called Terence Higgs from the couch without lifting his head from his book, _Quidditch Through the Ages_. 

At dinner, Harry had learned that Terence played seeker on the Slytherin team. On hearing Draco’s announcement that Harry didn’t know anything about Quidditch, Terence had spent most of the meal trying to convince Harry to try out for the reserve team when he was old enough and monologuing about the need for more finesse during gameplay from the Slytherin team, who was famous for using brute force. When Harry had pointed out that he’d never even sat on a broom before, much less observed a Quidditch game or formed an opinion about their house team, Terence had paused for only a moment before laughing and saying that this was Harry’s chance to form the right opinions before the rest of Slytherin ruined him, to which Miles had looked over to tease, “Unlike the rest of us who play, Terence considers himself an _artiste_ instead of just an athlete.” 

“I’m a seeker! Of course I see things more clearly than the rest of you louts,” Terence had replied, sticking his nose up in the air only to be hit in the face by a glob of mash potatoes. In the ensuing foodfight, Miles and Terence had both ended up with pickled beets in their ears before uniting to fight against the rest of the table. While everyone was busy looking their way, Harry had poured gravy over Draco’s perfectly slicked back hair in thanks for how he kept bringing up Harry’s ignorance. 

“You can’t argue with a seeker’s eyes when it comes to women,” nodded Miles in response to Terence’s comment on tapestry Medusa. Face still buried in his book, Terance held up his hand as Miles passed by and received a high-five. Miles slurped around his licorice wand and flung himself into an armchair in front of the fire, throwing a leg over the arm. 

“Well, Harry?” Blaise asked with a smirk, leaning forward in his chair. “Was that it? Distracted by a pretty face?”

“No—well, yes, but not exactly. I just realized, especially after that snake in herbology today, but doesn’t Medusa sort of, well, doesn’t she look like a grown up version of Hermione Granger?” Harry asked awkwardly, making sure to keep his voice low.

“What? No!” Draco snapped, looking aghast. “If Medusa’s hot then she can’t be Granger. Don’t be disgusting.”

“Does Harry have a little crush on the Gryffindor know-it-all?” Blaise smirked and wiggled his fingers around his face as if imitating her curly hair.

“No! Of course not! I was just—I only meant because of the curls and the smile—oh, nevermind.” Flushing hot and then cold, Harry shrank down in his chair and tried to ignore the laughter. “Remember that I wasn’t the one running from the snake this morning and shrieking like a baby,” he muttered when the laughter showed no signs of stopping.

Blowing out his breath, Harry forced himself to sit down and picked up his discarded quill. “I guess this Potions essay isn’t going to write itself.” Harry was struggling in all of his classes, the world of magic so radically different from his previous experiences in the Muggle school system, but Potions was the worst, followed closely by Charms and Transfiguration.

Draco snorted and looked over. “I don’t know what you did, but Snape definitely dislikes you. If he weren’t our Head of House I bet you’d have lost us twenty points already, easy.”

“Gee, thanks Draco. Nice to know I have your support,” Harry said dryly.

“Maybe he’d like you better if you gave him a gift,” Greg suggested slowly. He sounded serious. Everyone at the table turned to look at him.

“Really, Goyle?” Draco stared incredulously at Greg.

“Like what?” Harry asked.

After a beat of silence, Theo gave a slow, closed-mouth smile. “Flowers? Greasy black ones to match his hair?” There was a burst of shocked laughter.

Blaise snorted and leaned forward. “Or dark chocolates to match the sunken pits of his eyes?”

“No, even better, poetry comparing him to a summer night!” Draco suggested gleefully, slapping the table.

“Jewelry!” Vincent said with a giggle.

They were all laughing now. 

“I’ve got it!” Harry said, having trouble speaking through his snickering. “What—what do you think he’d do if—if I got him one of those best friend necklaces,” Harry had to pause a second to wheeze, “the ones girls have where you each—each keep one half of the heart!?” Blaise was laughing so hard he fell out of his chair, Draco was holding his stomach and giggling, and Vincent and Greg started snorting like pigs. Harry put his head down on the table, hardly able to breathe. 

A pillow landed in the middle of the table, smacking Harry in the face, scattering their scrolls, and knocking over pots of ink. Harry looked up to see Adrian Pucey glaring at them. “Oi, you blokes are disgusting! Some of us are trying to work and you’re giving us all nightmares. Cut it out before Snape comes in, takes away points, and gives us all detentions!” 

Cleaning up the mess, occasionally meeting each other’s eyes and breaking into giggles, the table of first years returned to their homework once more in charity with each other. 

And if the hot Medusa in the tapestry still reminded Harry of a grown-up Hermione, well, he decided to keep that to himself.

* * *

The next week brought the high of flying on a broom, which Harry found as brilliant and easy as anything he’d ever done. Unfortunately, that was the only thing going right in his life. 

Maybe Harry’s relatives had been right—maybe he really was stupid. He could barely get his wand to do anything. Every day he fell more behind in Transfiguration and Charms. He also kept getting almost crippling headaches in Defense Against the Dark Arts, making it hard to focus. Maybe he wasn’t really magic, maybe it had all been a mistake. Even Greg and Vincent—even the stupid _Gryffindors_ —were getting it faster than he was. Harry hadn’t turned in his last two assignments, not because he hadn’t worked on them, but because he’d been too ashamed to turn in his obviously failed attempts in front of everyone else and risk public mocking. He couldn’t tell his roommates because they’d lose all respect for him and stop being his friends. No one wanted to be friends with a dumb loser.

What would he do if he failed his classes, disappointed his teachers, and got kicked out of school? Would they take away his magic? Would he even be allowed to go back to Muggle school? Or would he end up with no education working as child labor in some dirty factory while sleeping in the Dursley’s cupboard under the stairs again?

Chest tight as he walked past the abandoned Quidditch pitch, Harry remembered Madam Hooch saying that students were welcome to practice mounting a broom and doing simple flights if they felt they needed it before the next lesson. Harry didn’t need practice, but he might as well take the opportunity to fly while he still had it. Who knew when it would be taken away? 

Morosely making his way to the broom shed, Harry was surprised to see Granger standing outside. He hesitated in the shadows of the building, in no mood for company. 

Granger had her hair tied back in a messy bun, curls sticking up everywhere like exploding streamers. Turning so her face was in profile, she looked down at a broom on the ground and bit her lip. “Okay, get up. Come on, up,” she begged. There were tears in her eyes. “Up.” The broom rose a few inches and then plopped back onto the ground, nowhere near her hand. “Come on, please.” She took a shuddery breath and swiped at her eyes. 

She hadn’t seemed that bad during class, though she’d obviously struggled and been one of the last people off the ground. The only one slower had been her housemate, Neville Longbottom, who’d lost control of his broom, fallen off, and broken his arm. Maybe that had scared her enough to send her back to scratch. 

He and Granger were such opposites. He wasn’t good at anything but flying a broom and she was seemingly brilliant at everything but flying. As Harry watched her fail over and over again, an idea formed in his mind. Slytherins didn’t really ask for help, but they did exchange favors. And if he was really cunning, he would make the other person think it was their idea. Granger was smart, so he’d have to come at it sideways.

Taking a quick breath, heart thumping, Harry tried to channel Draco at his most confident as he boldly stepped out of the shadows. “Treat it like the snake, Granger.” 

She jumped, pressing a hand to her chest as her head swivelled around to watch him. “What? Potter?” Crossing her arms and raising her chin, cheeks flagging red in her pale face, Granger warily watched Harry grab another broom from the shed and come back out to join her. “What do you mean, treat it like the snake? Is that some broom flying secret code that they don’t teach Muggleborns?” 

Brushing hair off his face, Harry looked at her through his lashes and decided not to mention that he was raised Muggle too. “I don’t know about that, but the other day before Herbology you seemed comfortable and confident dealing with that snake. You also don’t seem to have a problem talking to a snake like me.” He shrugged, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt. “Approach your broom the same way and you’ll be flying in no time.”

“You’re a nice boy, not an evil broom, and my mom keeps snakes as pets. I’m used to snakes.” She glared at the broom at her feet so hard that Harry wouldn’t have been surprised to see it combust in a burst of accidental magic.

He wanted to smile at being called nice, but tried to remember his goal here. He shouldn’t look too eager or desperate. He should listen to his own advice and act comfortable and confident, ignoring the sweat trickling down his back at finally having a personal conversation with a girl, much less a girl like Hermione Granger, the brilliant witch with curly hair who looked like hot Medusa. 

Harry dropped his broom and didn’t wait for it to hit the ground before saying, “Up!” The handle smacked eagerly into his hand. Harry couldn’t stop his grin that time. He let the broom start to fall and then called it back again. “Up!” Why couldn’t the rest of his life be this simple? 

“So you’ve never had to sweep a floor before, Granger?” 

Sighing, Granger watched him with obvious envy. “Sweeping dirty floors with a broom has no relation to flying one high up into the air where you can fall and break your head open. My brain’s the only thing I have going for me.”

“And your curls,” Harry said without thinking. A pink blush flooded her cheeks as she looked down. Harry blushed too. He was glad she wasn’t looking at his face. 

He dropped his broom again just to watch her eyes follow the arc of its path from his hand, down to almost touch the ground, and up into his hand again. 

She sighed again and toed at the ground. “You make that look so easy.”

“Well, you make classwork look easy. Unlike me.” Harry reminded himself of his goal here. Slytherin cunning. This wasn’t just about finally talking to her.

She just nodded, not seeming to rise to the bait.

“You’re good at classwork, I’m good at flying brooms…” Harry trailed off, feeling like he was being too obvious. His palms started to sweat against the pitted and scarred handle of the school broom. 

As the silence stretched and the tension rose, Harry decided to give up on being subtle and cunning. After all, the Sorting Hat had almost put him in Gryffindor and they did say fortune favored the bold. He could practice being a better Slytherin another time when he wasn’t at risk of getting expelled.

“Will you tutor me?” Harry and Granger both spoke at the exact same time. Meeting each other's wide eyes in surprise, they both blurted, “Yes!” before dissolving into laughter. 

“Well to start with, Harry, why don’t you call me Hermione instead of Granger.” She held out her hand with a smile full of bright white teeth and crinkled brown eyes that sparkled with happiness. Her curls stuck out from her head like happy little exclamation marks. “Study partners should be first name friends.”

Harry shook her hand with a matching grin, her palm fitting perfectly into his own. “Okay, Hermione. Friends.” His chest filled with warmth. He had the strange thought that he’d just discovered something that might be even more brilliant than flying.

But that wasn’t the kind of thing you could just tell other people, especially not people like his roommates. Harry decided then and there that if anyone ever asked, he’d tell them that having a Gryffindor as a friend was a perfectly Slytherin thing to do because having friends and allies in other houses, especially your traditional rival, was both resourceful and cunning. If pressed, he’d mention that she was brilliant, had agreed to tutor him, and could be a helpful resource in the future. 

No one needed to know he really just wanted Hermione as a friend for himself. Even more than power and respect, Harry dreamed of an end to his loneliness. A loving family was out of his reach, but friends, especially good friends who knew all his secrets, loyally had his back, and never tore him down to lift themselves up—that didn’t seem like too lofty a dream. Blaise and Draco were his first and best friends here, but sometimes it felt like if he messed up they’d turn their backs on him. He didn’t know if Hermione would be any better, but looking into her warm brown eyes, he couldn’t help the gentle flutter of hope.

* * *

By the end of the week, Harry was once again turning in his homework, even if he still wasn’t anywhere close to getting top marks. Hermione, however, had stalled at getting her broom more than six feet off the ground. They’d decided to combine their tutoring sessions into one meeting, with Hermione helping Harry with magical concepts while Harry helped Hermione get more confident with flying. 

“You’re overthinking again.” Harry swept by on his broom over her head and did a sloth roll, just for fun. “Just send it forward. I know you can do it. _You_ know you can do it.”

“Stop going upside down, you’re making me nauseous.” She pursed her mouth and sent her broom moving forward in a wobbly line, but at least she was moving. 

“Good job. When you’re comfortable I want you to make a gentle turn to the left. We’re going to go in a loop around the Quidditch field. On the second lap, we’ll try adding in a few dips and elevations.” About to roll upside down again, Harry saw her looking at him with pursed lips and jerked himself back upright just in time. He swallowed a sigh and promised himself he’d take some time to go crazy and experiment on the broom after Hermione had returned to the castle. In the meanwhile he floated by her side, trying to be encouraging.

“If my problem is overthinking,” Hermione said shakily after finishing her first lap, eyes locked on her whiteknuckled fingers wrapped around her broom handle, “yours is your accent. It never changes and it needs to.” 

Harry abruptly rose in the air, the broom reacting to his frustration. “Why? What does it matter if I sound like a prat or not? I talk the way I talk.” Blowing out his breath, he forced himself to slow his pace so as not to lose Hermione. “Second lap. Let’s go a little higher.”

“Only a little.” Her broom rose almost imperceptibly in the air.

“Look Hermione, when I try talking differently I just sound stupid and my spells still don’t work. I don’t get why the accent even matters as long as I get the wand movements right and the words close enough.”

“Okay, maybe I’m going about explaining this the wrong way. Do you understand the nature of wild magic?”

“Not really?” Harry hovered his broom at her shoulder and tried to remember if he’d ever read anything about that. “I assume wild means it hasn’t been focused by a wand yet. Maybe?”

Hermione drifted up instead of craning her neck to keep talking to him. “That’s close. Magic is a force that can be found everywhere in varying degrees of concentration, but it can only be made physically manifest through others. It is dependent, not independent. Without an outside force acting upon it, organizing or unravelling it, wild magic itself has no influence on the physical world. I read that the first magic was probably accidentally gathered and used by plants and animals for basic needs like food, shelter, protection, and reproduction. Over time, thinking creatures learned to use it to do more complex tasks.” 

“Hence the use of wands, right? To organize it?”

“Right.” She flashed him an approving smile and copied his movements, sending her broom gently swishing from side to side. “Here in Europe and many parts of the world we use wands, while in much of Asia they use strings of beads. Africans and Native Americans favor musical instruments like drums or flutes, though the flute is popular in China as well. Different tools for the same purpose.” 

Harry thought through the implications. “Then why can’t I just swish my wand and tell my feather to float in class? Why does the shape of my wand movement and the weird words matter?”

“That’s a good question. I wondered that myself when I first started learning about magic. One of the reasons is that magic has memory. Wands help gather magic into a specific shape, while verbal spells remind the gathered magic of a purpose it’s taken before. That combines with the caster’s thoughts and intention towards the spell to organize the power into a specific outcome.” Hermione was using her hands to talk, steering the broom mostly with her knees and a few fingers. It made Harry want to grin with pride except he was afraid if he pointed it out he’d jinx it.

“Okay, but why do I have to use ancient Latin instead of modern English?” Harry kept drifting up and Hermione unconsciously followed, until their brooms were level with the bottom row of seats in the first tower, much higher than Harry had expected her to be willing to go today. He leveled out his broom and decided not to point out her achievement until later, in case she hadn’t noticed yet.

“Most spells we learn are similar to Latin because they were created, written down, and codified when Latin was the main language of Europe. That was our magical renaissance. Take the spell _wingardium leviosa_. Based just on the words alone, we can assume that the spell was created by some witch in a village far from the capital with a nonstandard Latin dialect. From what I’ve read about spell creation, it is supposedly extremely difficult and not something modern magicals spend much time doing compared to working with already organized magic in the creation of potions and artifacts. I’m not sure if that’s laziness, tradition, or lack of ability in modern witches and wizards.”

Harry was glad they were flying with the wind cutting briskly through his hair or else he might be falling asleep. “Hermione, my eyes are starting to cross. Where were you going with this story of a witch from a small village?” He wove his broom in and out of the goal posts and Hermione doggedly followed.

“Okay Harry, look, that ancient witch wanted to make something float. She figured out how to focus a large amount of wild magic, shape it with a wand pattern to embody the idea of floating, and then imprint the magic with both the idea and the words of what she wanted. Remember how I said that magic has memory? Once imprinted, magic becomes fixed and won’t react that way to any other stimulus.”

“What?”

“You can’t get the same effect with a wand without the same sounds. The words ‘ _wingardium leviosa’_ basically mean, ‘lift steeply like a wing.’ The magic now reacts the same way every time that process is repeated, but it’s the shape of the magic that’s important, not the wand motion or the words. Most people just need help shaping magic correctly and exactly. If you created a spell to levitate something today—which you could only do if there was no other wand-based spell to levitate things fixed in magic’s memory yet—students in the future wouldn’t be saying _wingardium leviosa_ , they’d be saying _levitate_ or _fly like a kite_ in English.”

“Okay, that’s interesting, but how does that help me to cast better spells now?” Harry asked, leading Hermione up and down in the air like the gentlest and slowest of roller coasters.

“Your wand gathers and focuses the magic for you, pushing it into shape. Your words and thoughts remind it of what it’s supposed to be doing. Magic isn’t smart or intuitive. It can’t read between the lines or understand if there are missing letters. It needs to see the exact shape and hear the same sounds to understand and respond. A book I read compared it to a key and lock or a simple input/output equation. Ancient magic is never lost, just people’s memory of how to cast it. If you found a spellbook from thousands of years ago the spells would still work. If someone gained and then passed on certain magical gifts to their offspring, and then those gifts disappeared over centuries of mixing blood through marriage, those magical gifts could be reawakened as long as the person had enough unused magic gathered in their core and something reminded the magic in their body what shape it was supposed to take, though my book said that because most families are super secret about things like blood magic that it makes it hard to rediscover the original ritual or spell used by an ancestor to spark the memory. Of course, that also means that there are always new spells to discover and create if we can just figure out how, only limited by our imagination.” Her eyes glittered with excitement.

“It would be cool to create our own spells,” Harry said, doing a corkscrew dive before pulling back up to make sharp pleats back and forth in the air. “Like one where I didn’t need glasses.” He pushed his back up his nose with a sigh for the hundredth time that flight.

“I know, right?” she said, leaning over her broom to keep talking to him as he flew beneath her. “And if you can mentally picture the shape and outcome of a spell with enough focus while releasing a burst of gathered magic, that’s casting a silent, wandless spell, though it’s supposed to be extremely difficult and requires a very disciplined mind. I think I can get to that point someday if I work hard enough. Maybe we can work on it together.” Grinning, she glided down to join him. “But until then, you need to speak a spell exactly like the person who first created it to make it work, bringing us back to your accent.”

“Are you sure there aren’t any spells in English?” Harry saw Hermione drifting a little close to the wall of the tower in her distraction and nudged her knee to turn her broom farther from danger.

Hermione shrugged and shook her head. “Not that I’ve seen in any of our first year textbooks, nor from any of the older students, which brings us back round to my first point. If you want to get better you need to work on your accent.”

“I heard you the first twenty times,” Harry said under his breath, feeling grumpy.

“Look, pretend you’re an actor like someone on the telly, er, I mean in a play.” Tucking a curl behind her ear, she looked down and away, adding under her breath, “You probably don’t know or care what a telly is.” Her lips turned down.

Harry had quickly learned to bite his tongue about his home life and Muggle past when in the Slytherin dungeons, but talking to Hermione felt different. She made him feel brave. “Actually, I was raised by my Muggle relatives. I only learned I had magic when I turned eleven this last summer, probably a lot like you. I wasn’t allowed to watch the telly, but I do know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah?” She sped up on her broom until she could look him in the face. Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re like me then how are you so good at flying?”

Laughing, Harry executed a quick loop around her broom and led her up towards the top of the towers. “I dunno, flying’s easy.”

“For you.” She scowled at him, cheeks puffing and her curls seeming to get larger. It was adorable, but she’d probably hit him if he told her that. 

“Hermione,” he said, voice unsteady with the laughter he was trying to suppress, “just look at yourself. Look around. You’ve been flying great this entire lecture, so obviously you’re good at it too.” 

“Oh!” As if only now realizing how high up they were, Hermione’s broom jerked in her hands like she’d hit a patch of bumpy air. Harry zipped over and positioned his broom below her in case she fell, but after a moment she returned to smooth sailing. “Huh, maybe I am overthinking it.” She looked around with wonder, her hands relaxing again.

Seeing the breeze tossing her curls and the pink in her cheeks, Harry felt warm inside. “Flying is fun, isn’t it?”

They glided peacefully for a few moments before she looked over at him with a soft smile. “You know, I think it is. Thanks, Harry.” 

Full of happiness, he smiled back.

* * *

By the end of term, both of them were doing well in their difficult subjects. Even the troll in the castle at Halloween and Hermione having to put the dexterity she’d learned on a broom to work racing around the girl’s bathroom to keep from being squashed before the teachers arrived hadn’t set their studies back. Harry feared it would mean the end of their friendship now that Hermione didn’t need his help learning to fly anymore, but she thwapped him on the head with a book when he mentioned it. 

“Ouch!” he rubbed his head and watched her warily. They were walking outside towards the broom shed for what he’d feared would be their last flight.

“We still have loads of stuff to learn. There’s no reason we can’t keep studying together, maybe even in the library for once,” she sniffed and arched one brow. “You know, that place full of books where normal people study?”

“Har har.” Harry tossed the ball in his hand up in the air and tried to look like his chest wasn’t about to burst from happiness. “I suppose we can do the library sometimes, but I still want to keep up with our flights. You’re finally starting to get good and I don’t want you to lose all of that progress. Besides, playing catch while studying is loads more fun than sitting at a table.” 

He caught the ball and then tossed it over to Hermione with no warning. It improved her reflexes and situational awareness and helped Harry with his training to become the next Slytherin seeker. He’d almost made the reserve team this year except that Snape had refused to sign off on Harry’s participation, using the excuse that Harry didn’t have his own broom and that they were against the rules for first years, making practicing with the team impractical. Admittedly, first years normally weren’t allowed to play anyway, but Terence had suggested that Harry might be good enough to make an exception. Next year nothing was going to hold him back, even if he had to trick Hagrid so he could sneak extra money from his vault to buy himself a broom.

“I like sitting at library tables,” Hermione huffed, catching the ball with a spark in her eye, “and you can’t write essays or take notes up on a broom!” She threw the ball back hard.

“That’s why we’ll compromise,” Harry said, catching the ball even though the throw had gone wide. Hearing her stomach growl, Harry reached into his bag and pulled out an apple, tossing it with as little warning as the ball. He trusted Hermione to catch it. 

Even though food was always plentiful here at Hogwarts, he still hadn’t quite gotten out of the habit of squirrelling away extra food. Just in case. Besides, it proved helpful with certain friends who spent meals reading instead of eating. “Feed the beast before it escapes and mauls someone.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione took a crunchy bite of the apple, wiping the juice off her chin with the back of her hand. “Thanks. I wish the boys in my house were as nice and easy to talk to as you.”

“Weasley still giving you trouble?” Harry asked sympathetically. “You know he’s just jealous.”

“I know he’s a jerk even when I’m trying to be helpful or nice,” she scowled. “If he doesn’t want to be told the right way to do something then why does complain so loudly about being confused when his work goes wrong? And when he makes fun of me the rest of them just laugh and go along with it. I have nothing in common with anybody, not even Neville, who gets made fun of almost as much as I do. No one respects me.” She took a vicious bite from her apple and chewed furiously.

Harry wished he could help her, wished he could just punch Weasley or something to make it stop, but a Slytherin intervening would just make things worse for her, besides which Harry wasn’t sure he could beat the big redhead in a fight unless he completely lost his temper. Being that unhinged scared him. He didn’t like seeing himself like that. Harry liked the idea of being powerful, but he didn’t want his power to come from violence or fear. 

Chewing on his lip, eyes narrowing, Harry looked out across the school grounds and tried to think of something helpful. Surely he’d learned something from all of the scheming happening in the Slytherin common room every night. “Make them respect you and see that you have common ground. Try swapping skills, like we do. Watch them to figure out what they enjoy or feel passionate about and bring it up in conversation. Get them to think of you as being with them on the same team, perhaps by invoking a common enemy.” Harry shrugged and gave her a commiserating look. “It sounds like if you want things to change, most of the effort is going to have to come from you, which stinks.”

Hermione nodded slowly, eyes going unfocused. “This sounds like a long-term plan that’s going to need notes and diagrams, lots of notes and diagrams, because the only things Ron Weasley seems to like are Quidditch and food. Oh!” In her excitement at thinking of something, Hermione inhaled a chunk of apple and started to choke. By the time they’d dislodged it, Harry was thoroughly distracted and never did get around to asking her about her idea, though she did seem to take their Quidditch training a lot more seriously than usual after that. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was aiming to get on the Quidditch team next year too.


	2. Second year - Back at School

On arriving back at Hogwarts for his second year, Harry breathed deeply for the first time in months. All summer he’d fought against a jittery hot feeling at being trapped with the Dursleys again, like he’d been seeing and breathing through a smothering hood and only now could rip it off again. It had been awful, not because the Dursley’s were more abusive than usual, but because he now knew what he was missing. Even being allowed to keep sleeping in Dudley’s second smaller bedroom instead of going back to the cupboard didn’t change the fact that to his family, he was only an unwanted freak and good for nothing slave. He wished he could stay at Hogwarts year round, but Dumbledore wouldn’t allow that.

At Hogwarts, Harry could do magic and had some control over his life. He had people who liked him and wanted him to be there. Harry didn’t like the fame surrounding the whole boy-who-lived thing, but even that was better than being with the Dursleys. He dreamed of one day becoming someone important, powerful, and respected. 

To achieve that goal, Harry knew that he needed to get better at magic and fitting into magical society. The way some of the other students looked down their noses at him for how he acted and how certain Slytherin cliques wouldn’t give him the time of day made that perfectly clear. Draco’s “interventions” last year had only helped so much, especially when they highlighted how much Harry still didn’t fit in. Quietly listening in on the strategy sessions held by older students, he realized that he needed to be in charge of his reputation instead of allowing other people to control his image. 

Trying to strategize and make plans like a good Slytherin, Harry got out his quill and wrote down some ideas on how to stop being seen as a freakish celebrity. Chewing on his lip, he decided that a good start would be studying more with Hermione in the library this year. Not only would he get to see more of Hermione (definitely a bonus) but he might also improve his grades in Potions enough to get Snape off his back and eventually turn him from an enemy into an ally, as Terence had boasted he’d done with Professor Sinistra. He also couldn’t help imagining being better than Draco and seeing his face when people started turning to Harry for answers instead.

However, despite his good intentions and Hermione’s delight when he voiced the idea, Harry only managed to study in the library for the first two weeks. He’d somehow forgotten that studying in the library was _boring_. Hermione wanted to be in the library every night they weren’t flying or in Astronomy and she always sat right in front next to Madam Pince’s desk. That meant no snacking while studying and not being allowed to talk without being shushed or scolded by a sour-faced Madam Pince, which felt too much like keeping his head down at home while being glared at by Aunt Petunia. It hadn’t bothered him as much the year before, but after a lonely and miserable summer, he was starved for social interaction and the freedom to flamboyantly use magic, not to mention the chance to eat whenever he got hungry. He knew he probably didn’t need to horde food now that he was back at Hogwarts, but it was hard to break the habit after a lifetime of hiding scraps for when the Dursleys locked him in and forgot to feed him. 

Harry always liked Hermione, but he only sometimes liked studying. It was easier to just do his homework at the last minute in the Slytherin common room with Blaise than to give up an evening’s entertainment by doing his homework days or even weeks in advance. He wished Hermione was in Slytherin too so they could eat at the same table and just study together in the common room, but he knew it was a selfish wish that would make things easier for himself and harder on her considering the prejudice in his house against muggleborns. Though maybe it would be harder on him too because he could see himself getting into a lot more fights defending slights to his friend versus the current situation of biting his tongue bloody and trying to ignore the insults to himself.

While Harry was happy to be back at Hogwarts, things weren’t exactly easy. Someone had published more books about his “adventures” over the summer, leading to girls he didn’t even know sighing when he walked past and asking him to autograph things. Professor Lockhart had made everyone much too comfortable asking for autographs this year. He was also pretty sure that several of his housemates had parents who’d supported Voldemort, leading their children to strike out at him whenever they caught him alone and making him much too familiar with getting jinxed. After a few too many visits, Madam Pomfrey had finally given him a jar of Bruisewort Balm to take with him, though she unfortunately wouldn’t part with even a small bottle of the more powerful Essence of Dittany.

After the events of last year, Dumbledore had basically patted Harry’s head, given him a lolly, and told him not to worry his little head about such events just yet, as if Harry wasn’t having nightmares about what had happened with Professor Quirrel and Voldemort’s spirit, as if Harry hadn’t killed someone just by touching them and hadn’t almost died himself. He respected Headmaster Dumbledore a lot, but he also hated how Dumbledore wouldn’t tell Harry about anything until he decided that Harry was old enough. Old enough for what? The whole episode had made him into even more of a celebrity, but the freakish kind people pointed and gawked at, whispering “facts” to each other behind their hands. The new books and Professor Lockhart’s overly dramatic presence just made it worse. 

One day Harry wanted to be respected enough to be told what was going on, powerful enough to keep himself safe, and popular enough to have loyal friends who genuinely knew him and cared about him no matter what. Right now, he had none of those things. No one needed to know how much that bothered him.

Harry was used to bullying. It wasn’t fun, but he knew how to grit his teeth and get through it. However, it was a lot worse when the people tormenting you were people you’d trusted to be friends. The summer break had somehow destroyed most of his hard-won relationships with his roommates. Vincent and Greg going back to being jerks was irritating, but not the end of the world. Theo distancing himself when other people were around and refusing to take his side against the others was disappointing, but not shocking. However, Draco’s change of heart into a cruel jerk encouraging others to mock Harry made Harry feel like he’d been punched in the gut and couldn’t catch his breath. Harry had thought better of Draco. He’d thought he could trust him to have his back. Only Blaise remained a loyal friend and stuck up for Harry, though as great as Blaise was, he didn’t like discussing anything too serious (and all of Harry’s problems were serious). 

By the end of last year, Draco and Blaise had been his best friends, with Hermione a close runner up. Both boys had helped Harry to get through the traps on the third floor along with Hermione, despite their well-known and vocal dislike of the know-it-all Gryffindor (not that Harry had intended on her coming along, but she’d stumbled upon the group of Slytherins and threatened to report them to a Professor if they didn’t let her help, a help that had ended up saving their lives several times along the way). Admittedly Draco had been dragged along by Blaise instead of volunteering, but he also hadn’t put up too much of a fuss. Draco hated to be left out of anything interesting and had thought he’d get to prove them all wrong about Snape being evil and have ‘I told you so’ rights for years to come. 

Despite Draco being right about Snape’s innocence (at least that one time) and how much danger they’d all been in and the cuts and bruises they’d ended up with, Draco had barely even complained afterwards. Harry had been happily surprised. Draco had also acted perfectly friendly to Harry when they’d parted at the train station, even giving Hermione an awkward nod farewell when she’d politely wished him a good summer. 

So it had made his about-face at the start of school unexpected and painful. That first day, Draco had coldly brushed off all of Harry’s attempts to talk to him, first on the train and again at the sorting feast. When the two of them had been the first ones back in their dorm room that first night—Harry doggedly following at Draco’s heels—Harry hadn’t even waited for the door to click shut before opening his mouth. “What is your problem?”

Spinning around with a dramatic swirl of black robes, Draco sneered and crossed his arms. “You’re my problem, Potter,” he said, practically spitting the _P_.

The scorn on his face somehow caught Harry off guard, despite Draco’s cold attitude all day. “What? Why? You didn’t have a problem with me last year. What’s changed? Tell me and I’ll fix it! We’re friends and roommates—being at odds is ridiculous. It’s _stupid_.” Harry couldn’t keep his voice from sounding upset and hurt.

Draco lifted his chin condescendingly. “The only thing stupid was ever being friends with you.”

“That’s stupid too,” Harry snapped, too upset to think up a decent comeback. “You have to have a reason.”

Draco’s eyes became ice. “Look, it’s simple. My father doesn’t like you. I’m not going to be friends with someone my father doesn’t like.”

“Draco, I don’t even know your father!” Harry snapped, throwing up his hands. “And he doesn’t know me! Not like you do after everything we’ve been through together. We’re friends! I wouldn’t have even gotten past that living wizard chess game last year without your help. You know that the rumors and books about me are all full of rubbish. You know me. What do _you_ think?” 

For the first time Draco’s arrogance faltered, his shoulders curving forward as he looked down and away, giving Harry some hope that they could get past this.

“C’mon, Draco,” Harry said, his chest tight. “Remember how you helped me sneak past a Cerberus and all those other traps? Remember how we stayed up late studying for tests and sat next to each other sharing crisps during Slytherin’s Quidditch matches? We’re _friends_.”

Shifting, Draco swallowed and licked his lips, opening his mouth as if pulling in a breath to say something… just as Vincent and Greg came thundering down the hall and into the room, sending the door banging back against the wall. 

“Out of the way, Potter,” Vincent bellowed, knocking Harry into the wall with his meaty shoulder as he moved to his trunk. 

By the time a scowling Harry pushed up off the wall, Draco’s back had snapped straight and his expression had closed off. 

“Yeah, you better watch it.” Greg said, looking quickly to Draco before smacking his fist into his hand.

Greg and Vincent pulled out their cleaning potions and pajamas before stomping off for the bathroom. Harry and Draco waited by mutual accord for the other boys to finish up and leave before speaking again. The slamming of the door sounded like the deep tolling of a bell, vibrating through the floor and up into the soles of Harry’s feet.

Draco, his grey eyes like chips of ice, spoke first. “My father knows enough.” Turning his head, he stared past Harry’s shoulder and out the window at the greenish water beneath the Great Lake. The windows were all underwater here in Slytherin. A large fish with bulbous eyes, pale stripes, and spiked fins slowly swam past, illuminated for a moment by the light shining through the window before it reversed back into the shadows. “You probably can’t understand, especially since you don’t have parents, but I have to obey my father.” His hands fisted in the sleeves of his robe and his mouth twisted. “I want to. I won’t choose an ignorant loser like you over my family.” Moving onto his bed, he snapped the curtains closed, shutting Harry out.

Harry decided that he quite hated Lucius Malfoy. And maybe that he hated Draco a little bit too.

Over the next month, nothing really improved. Blaise stayed sympathetic and kind and Theo distant. Greg and Vincent became generally mean and pushed Harry around whenever they could get away with it, whatever had made them respect and fear him the year before now forgotten as they followed Draco’s lead and the directives of their own fathers. As the days passed, Draco either sliced into Harry with the cutting edge of his tongue or ignored him. Their arguments got louder and more heated as Harry’s willingness to forgive and not say anything he couldn’t take back got smaller. Harry pretended that he didn’t care, but he did.

-oo00oo-

After Harry gave up on studying in the library, the only time he really saw Hermione outside of sitting across a classroom was when she came out flying with him. On their first flight after the summer, Hermione gave him a big hug that made him feel fizzy inside, smoothing over a bit of the hurt from Draco’s defection, and spoke of her summer travels—first stopping off in Spain for a couple of days to help her dad’s cousin settle in after she’d moved away from the rest of their family in Colombia, and then going to her mom’s big family reunion in Greece. 

Trying not to be jealous of her having that much family all over the world, not to mention all of her fun summer adventures, Harry vented about the strange house elf named Dobby who’d tried to get him kicked out of Hogwarts and how he’d almost gotten stuck when the wall to platform 9¾ wouldn’t open for him. At least her strong reactions to his story—even shouting at the unfairness and getting angry at how he’d been treated—made him feel a little bit better. He only spoke of the silly and unusual things that had happened to him, not giving her details about his life at the Dursleys for fear she’d think less of him. He also didn’t mention his ruined friendships with his roommates, knowing she was barely civil with them at the best of times and not wanting her to do or say something to make things worse. 

For a while he waffled about telling her about the voice of poison and ice he sometimes heard whispering inside the walls of the castle, but in the end decided not to. He didn’t want to ruin their nice day or make Hermione think he had cracked and started going crazy. No one else seemed to be hearing the creepy voice talking of ripping, tearing, and killing, so maybe it was just a side effect of touching Voldemort’s spirit last year and would go away on its own.

Thankfully Hermione had long since gotten over her initial discomfort with brooms and on a good day would even race him up a vertical surface when he got particularly antsy (though she still balked at racing straight down). She didn’t have his speed or reckless disregard for safety, but she wasn’t a pushover either. They easily fell back into a comfortable friendship.

After almost a month of seeing each other a couple of times a week to go flying, Hermione hesitantly asked him to join her in the library again so they could hang out more often. 

Feeling guilty, Harry shuffled his feet. “I guess I can try. You have to know it’s not you, Hermione. It’s just that Madam Pince glares at me everytime I open my mouth or even move too fast to get something out of my bag.” He wrinkled his nose and huffed.

Hermione took a quick breath and stuck out her chin. “Well, I suppose we can sit farther back where it’s harder for Madam Pince to see us. I know other people talk while working back there, but Harry, you need to study more if you don’t want to fall behind again! Schoolwork is important and… and I can help you with that.” She looked down and tucked a chestnut curl behind her ear. “I like helping you with that.”

“And I appreciate that. I do. I’ll try, alright? And thanks.” And he’d meant it, but the next time Harry made his way to the library, he found a large group of students buzzing around the notice board posted just down the hall and found himself drifting in that direction. Madam Pince was standing just inside the library doors scowling, huffing, and tapping her foot. Hermione was hovering on the fringes of the group, curls escaping her ponytail and falling down her neck, leaning against the wall and sighing a lot. 

“What’s going on?” he asked her, pushing past two students and leaning over to talk.

Straightening with a crooked smile, eyes a little sad, Hermione jerked her thumb over at the notice board. “You’re definitely going to want to read that.”

Shoulders tensing, Harry leaned forward. “It’s not something about me, is it?” Lockhart had been talking about having Harry join the photoshoot for his next poster and maybe having a few lucky students blurred in the background as adoring fans. Thinking of it made Harry’s skin crawl. If this was a call for models or photographers, Harry intended to disappear. Fast.

Forcing a smile, Hermione shook her head and patted his arm. “No, it’s something exciting. I promise. Go see.” Squeezing once, she let him go with a little shove.

Looking back at her questioningly, Harry wiggled his way through the crowd, almost getting his foot smashed by a bouncing Ron Weasley. A large piece of parchment pinned to the notice board showed brooms, Quaffles, and Snitches zipping in all directions, knocking into each other and sometimes the words in the middle, making the words go crooked and even flipping letters upside down. The enchanted parchment announced that Quidditch tryouts were being held the second weekend of October for all houses, with more specific dates and times to be posted in each common room. Trepidation turning into enthusiasm, Harry shot a big grin over his shoulder at Hermione, who was still leaning against the wall.

In all the excitement, he never did make it past the doors of the library to study with her. He had to go and talk to the current members of the Slytherin team as soon as possible to get advice on how to secure his place. It was rare for a second-year to make a team, but not impossible. Caught up in Quidditch fever, he paused just long enough to tell Hermione that they’d have to reschedule. She didn’t seem surprised and, thank goodness, didn’t get mad. 

“You’re the best, Hermione!” Harry told her with a grin before running off, mind already calculating where Terence might be found.

-oo00oo-

Everyone at Hogwarts knew the members of their house Quidditch team. They were respected and looked up to. They commanded attention and always had friends. 

Harry desperately wanted to be one of them. There was no way they’d choose a shrimp like him to be a Beater or even a Keeper, and the house had too many good choices for Chasers already, especially since Terence was switching from Seeker to Chaser this year after a growth spurt over the summer. However, Harry was a great flyer, the smallest boy in his year, and had quick reflexes—the perfect traits for the open Seeker position. In casual pickup games, Harry always played the Seeker position and—so far—had always caught the Snitch before the other team. He knew that Draco had been eyeing the Seeker spot for himself and was better at kissing up, but Harry hoped that his talent and persistence would win out. 

To that end, he started practicing regularly and tried to make sure he was seen doing impressive dives and fast turns by current members of the Slytherin team whenever he noticed them outside. None of them had said anything about it, but Harry wasn’t ready to give up on the tactic just yet.

Trying to be supportive, Hermione even joined him in training or the occasional weekday match with other Quidditch hopefuls when the weather was nice and she’d already finished her homework. She’d become quite the accomplished flyer after spending the last year balancing books while studying on a broomstick. Although Harry was still better at flying, he knew he’d never beat a genius like Hermione in class, especially when it came to remembering an answer or putting together complex ideas, though once he got a spell down he could often cast faster and with more power than she did. While he sometimes floundered on written exams, he often flourished under the stress of a timed practical. Hermione was the opposite, hating to be rushed when giving an answer, though still performing brilliantly for all of that. Nevertheless their weaknesses balanced each other out and when he could get her competitiveness in schoolwork to transfer over to flying, it made her a great training partner. Although not as obsessed as he was, he liked to think that they still had fun together throwing around a Quaffle or searching for the Snitch. 

Harry wished that people in Gryffindor could see how great Hermione was so she got more respect and more friends. Some of her housemates had gotten a little nicer, but she still seemed alone more often than not when he wasn’t with her. During class, Ron Weasley seemed to blow even more hot and cold towards Hermione than Draco used to towards Harry. He presented a united front against people outside Gryffindor and got her to help him when he got stuck on something, but then turned around and spouted mean things about her for a laugh to his friends. Weasley got particularly bad when he noticed Hermione being obvious about how much smarter she was than the rest of them (which behavior admittedly sometimes even irritated Harry, though he tried to remember that she honestly wasn’t trying to make others look bad, just impress the teachers and make herself look good, which could have the same outcome but started with different intentions). 

With only two weeks left before tryouts, Hermione agreed to help Harry practice his Seeker skills. He was at the point where he needed someone to race against instead of just catching the Snitch on his own. They set the Snitch to fast training instead of game mode so it wouldn’t spend so much time holding still and hiding to make the game go longer. Tied one to one after about twenty minutes of playing, they’d just circled the flapping blue flags above the Ravenclaw stands when Harry saw a glint of gold far below and reacted, throwing himself into a reckless dive. He caught the Snitch, but dropped his glasses onto the ground when he barely missed slamming into an archway leading up a tower staircase. 

After enough fussing from Hermione to get embarrassing—though it did secretly make Harry feel warm deep down inside—Hermione gently dabbed the blood from the shallow scrape on his temple and repaired his mangled glasses. She also insisted on teaching him a stronger sticking charm and several other spells specifically designed for wizards who wore glasses and played sports. 

“Why do you even know spells like that? You don’t wear glasses,” Harry finally asked, bewildered.

“Yes, but you do.” Before he could decide on how to respond to that, Hermione shook her finger at him. “I’m willing to keep playing, but only if you promise to be more careful with yourself and less insane with your flying.”

Harry quickly agreed and they set the Snitch loose and zipped up into the air again. However, when Harry managed to catch the Snitch twice in the span of the next ten minutes, despite restraining himself from steep dives, it led to a score of four to one in favor of Harry and a scowling and huffing Hermione with a pricked ego. 

The next time Hermione caught a glimpse of the Snitch, she let her competitive nature take over and dropped into a steep spinning dive that had even Harry choking in worry, his heart in his throat as her curls twirled behind her like doomed sailors sucked down into a whirlpool. Fingers outstretched, eyes intent, Hermione’s hand closed around the Snitch just seconds before the edge of her cheek grazed off the goalpost. Listing sideways, the Snitch’s wings sticking out from between her fingers, she almost fell off her broom. 

“Hermione!” Harry cried, racing to her side. 

Cradling her face, she managed to right herself before he reached her. She landed her broom and Harry quickly followed. 

“Are you okay? Let me see,” Harry demanded.

“Y—yeah, I’m okay,” she sniffled, lowering her hand. Harry put his hand on her chin and carefully turned her cheek in his direction to see better. Eyes wet but the fluttering Snitch still held firmly in her grasp, Hermione tried to give him a weak smile. A few slow tears escaped despite her attempt to be brave. Harry felt sick. He wished he knew a healing spell or had tricked Pomfrey into giving him some dittany. Her face was rapidly swelling and had a red welt from chin to cheek. She didn’t seem to have a concussion since her pupils looked the same size and she had no problem following his moving finger when he held it up and asked her to focus. 

“I think that’s enough practice for today. Let’s take a break,” Harry said softly, putting a hand on her back.

Carefully wiping her eyes, she exhaled shakily and nodded. “Okay.” 

On returning to the broom shed, they ran into Professor McGonagall, the wide brim of her pointed black hat shading her eyes against the glare of the setting sun. For once her stern face looked almost soft. “Mister Potter, Miss Granger,” she nodded to each of them. “That impact looked a bit nasty, Miss Granger, are you alright?”

“Yes, thank you Professor.” Hermione looked down, going pink with embarrassment. 

“That was very impressive flying from both of you, especially for second years,” said Professor McGonagall, straightening her back. “Well done.”

Looking up with surprise, Hermione’s skin turned from pink to red. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry echoed her awkwardly. He didn’t have much experience with taking compliments, especially from adults. Grabbing Hermione’s broom from her hand, he put it away with his inside the shed.

Coming back out, he found Professor McGonagall still waiting. Harry paused, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. She sent him a faint smile and said, “When I first saw the two of you flying so fearlessly, for a moment I was transported into the past. Your father would’ve been proud of you, Mister Potter. James was an amazing Quidditch player himself.”

Harry caught his breath, discomfort forgotten as he stepped closer to see her face better beneath the brim of her pointed hat. “My dad was?” 

McGonagall nodded firmly and met his eyes. “He led the Gryffindor team to many victories during his time here.” Sighing, she shook a finger at him. “If only you’d been sorted into Gryffindor, I’d have snatched you up last year as Seeker for my team after seeing the way you took to a broom. I reckon I’d have won the house cup from Severus then!”

Hermione giggled and nudged his side. “See, Harry? I told you you were great.”

“Indeed he is,” McGonagall said, making Harry’s cheeks go hot. She turned to Hermione with a faint smile. “Though you aren’t too shabby either, my dear. Our reserve team could use someone who dives like you. I reckon Wood could polish you up very nicely indeed, maybe have you playing first string in a year or two. Think about it, and don’t forget to see Pomfrey to heal that cheek.” Nodding at them both, she turned and walked away.

Laughing incredulously, Hermione shook her head. “Me playing team sports? Is she crazy?” Beneath her words hung a wistful thread.

“I think you’d be great at anything you put your mind to,” Harry said loyally, scooping up their bags out of the lockers and handing hers over before closing the door of the broom shed. 

His mind bounced back to McGonagall’s revelation. “Do you think my dad’s name might be somewhere in the trophy room?”

“I don’t see why not, considering what the Professor said about him being such a good flyer. We could go together and look.” Just then the bell tolled the time in deep gongs that echoed out across the grounds. Hermione listened to the number of notes and grimaced before sucking in her breath and gingerly touched her cheek. “Though not tonight. I have to color code my notes before dinner and then I have astronomy right after. I’m free tomorrow though, especially since my roommates are planning some sort of spa makeover night and I’m not invited.” She shrugged and laughed awkwardly.

Still caught up in thinking about his dad being on a house Quidditch team, it took Harry a moment to realize that Hermione was looking at him expecting a reply. “Oh, well, good thing since you hate that kind of stuff, right? Though I’ll probably just see if Blaise can come help me search tonight. I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow and I already made plans I don’t want to break.” Harry felt full to bursting at the thought of finding his father’s name in the trophy room, a tangible link to the man he was just barely starting to get to know. 

Besides which, lately when Draco got bored in the evenings but was too wired to sleep or monologue to Greg and Vincent, he’d started forgetting to be such a prat and fallen back into the habits of last year’s friendship. It was almost as if staying enemies was proving to be too much of an effort (at least that was Harry’s hope). Yesterday he’d actually stomped up to where Harry was reading on his bed, kicked the mattress, and challenged him to a game of wizard chess without using a single insulting nickname. That thawing of hostilities hadn’t extended to the classroom or even the public areas of their dorm, but it gave Harry hope. 

That night, Harry had played perhaps the best chess game of his life and beaten Draco. Irritated but unwillingly impressed, Draco had challenged Harry to a rematch tomorrow after dinner to prove that Harry’s win was a fluke. If Harry didn’t show up, he feared it would set their friendship back to zero again. 

Having Draco as a permanent enemy, especially considering how influential the Malfoys were with other important people in the wizarding world, would make his years in Slytherin a lot more difficult. He hadn’t realized how much being Draco’s friend had helped his status last year when it came to the other people in Slytherin. Harry was working on improving his standing within his house on his own merits, but if he could win back Draco, maybe Draco could convince his father to like and support Harry outside of Hogwarts too. Though even for Draco, he wasn’t going to step aside and give up the chance to be Slytherin’s Seeker, especially after finding out that he was following in his father’s footsteps.

Hermione’s smile dimmed. “Sure, of course, though I’ll just be hanging out in the library tomorrow—studying like always—if you want to swing by.” Looking away, she tucked one of her tangled curls behind her ear and swallowed, making the red welt on her face seem more prominent. “Good luck finding your dad’s name.” Head down, she trudged back to the castle at his side. 

Frowning, Harry noticed that she looked paler than before. “Hermione, are you sure you’re alright? That’s a nasty looking scratch and you did knock your head,” he nudged her gently, trying to get her to look at him. “Though your catch was wicked brilliant. Even Professor McGonagall thought so and everyone knows how hard to please she is.” 

“Thanks,” she said softly, her smile genuine but subdued. “Though she’s nowhere near as difficult as your head of house, Professor Snape.”

Before he could agree to that obvious observation, a voice drew his attention. “Oi, Harry!” Looking over, Harry saw Terence waving from the edge of a knot of older Slytherin boys. Most of them were on either the main or reserve Quidditch teams. Several looked at Harry with disapproval, though that might’ve been because he was hanging out with a muggleborn Gryffindor and not just because Harry was Harry. If so, they could just keep on glaring because he had no intention of changing who he chose to be friends with.

Of course, Bole and Derrick were probably glaring because Harry was Harry, the wankers. They always seemed to have it out for him and took every opportunity to mock his ugly scar, muggle manners, and ignorance of magical customs. They also liked to bump into him too hard and jinx him when they found him alone in the halls. 

Harry wouldn’t have trusted most groups they chose to hang out with, but Terence was always pretty nice and had a higher social standing, so it should be safe enough to go over. Besides, Harry needed to get as many members of the Quidditch team on his side as he could if he was going to beat Draco and win the Seeker position. Terence waved again, getting impatient, his dark blond hair sticking up from his head almost as messily as Harry’s usually did. “C’mere!” 

“Terence is on the team. I gotta go talk to him if you’re okay?” Harry looked back at Hermione, waiting for her to nod.

“Sure, see you tomorrow in DADA,” she said quietly.

“Ugh, Lockhart.” Harry rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue in disgust.

“ _Professor_ Lockhart,” Hermione corrected stiffly, obviously still somehow dazzled by the man.

Shaking his head, eager to know what Terence had to say, Harry left with a wave. “Later, Hermione, and don’t forget to go to the infirmary for your cheek!” 

Harry trotted over to Terence and his friends, trying to act cool instead of intimidated. When he got there, Terence said they’d seen his match with Hermione. Like McGonagall, Terence and his friends had been impressed. Harry barely restrained himself from dancing a jig. His plan to get noticed by members of the Slytherin team had worked! 

“You’re a natural in the air!” Terence clapped Harry on the shoulder and pulled him close. Several of the other boys frowned, keeping their distance. “If you can pull off dives like that on an ancient school broom, which is only a squint away from being a stick pulled out of a centaur’s bum, then you should shine on a real sports broom. You’re almost as good as I was in second year, maybe even a smidge better in reflexes, though ever so much worse in looks.” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Thanks.” Harry rolled his eyes. “I think.”

Terrance turned Harry to look towards the Quidditch pitch and framed his hands in the air, as if looking at something no one else could see. “Harry, it’s time Slytherin became better known for our skill in the skies than for injuring our opponents.” 

“Not this again,” someone groaned in disgust, but Terence stopped Harry from turning to look and see who.

“Harry, this year is our time to shine. I want you to borrow my broom before tryouts to get a real feel for diving at top speed. If you do as well as I expect, I think you could fill my spot as team Seeker.” 

“Really?” Harry felt his eyes go wide and a grin splitting his cheeks. He didn’t know if this day could get any better. “I’d love that!”

“If you keep flying like what I saw today, you’re gonna be a shoe in.”

“He’s not a shoe-in if Malfoy wants it,” that same voice said again a lot louder, probably Bole. Bole never passed up a chance to make Harry feel like dung on the bottom of his shoe.

The hand on Harry’s shoulder tightened and Terence’s smile dimmed. “Well, even if he doesn't make first string, there’s always the reserve team. Besides, nothing’s been decided yet.” Terence stepped back and turned to look at his friends, keeping a hand on Harry. “I don’t know what’s going to happen at tryouts, but when it comes to raw talent, my money’s on Harry. He’s gonna be a winner. He’s gonna help us be winners. Whadda ya say, Captain?” 

Harry’s breath caught as the group parted to reveal Marcus Flint, the current Quidditch Captain. Flint was a big, brawny sixth year with close-cropped black hair, large ears, larger hands, and no scruples. He was willing to do anything to win at Quidditch, up to and including cheating during a match and purposely fouling the other team. More opposing players ended up in the hospital wing due to Flint alone than the rest of the Slytherin team combined. 

It was exactly that kind of play that Terence was campaigning against and to Flint’s face, which was either suicidal or a clever way of proving he wasn’t trying to stab Flint in the back and steal his Captaincy. People who stabbed Flint in the back or—even more idiotically—in the front always ended up as shunned and broken figures skirting around the edge of the room who peed themselves if you looked at them too hard. It was pretty universally regarded as a bad idea. 

Flint—whose first name was Marcus though he refused to answer to anything but his last name since he’d supposedly been named after a relative he despised—rarely had much to say unless it was about Quidditch. He also had a scowl so mean that it had been known to stop people dead in their tracks and send them running in the opposite direction. Harry had heard that the other houses used him as a boogeyman to scare new students. 

No one crossed Flint. 

Which made the other part of Flint’s reputation inside Slytherin so confusing. It was an unspoken house rule that you didn’t speak of Flint’s character, not unless you were feeling exceptionally brave and were inside the most secure part of their basement dungeon underneath the Black Lake. 

The truth was that while Marcus Flint was a total bully when it came to the members of other Quidditch teams, he could be protective, patient, and kind when it came to his fellow Slytherins. If Flint hadn’t been so willing to do anything to win a game, he’d probably have been a Hufflepuff considering how much loyalty he showed to members of his house. If someone attacked or disrespected him in the halls, Flint would defend himself swiftly and violently, but in the Slytherin common room he was unexpectedly sweet. 

That didn’t mean he was weak. In Slytherin, Flint was a major power. He’d just also carelessly loan out books, clothing, or money to anyone who asked. 

At first, Harry thought it was just a way of making people owe him favors, or because it made Flint feel magnanimous and important, but that didn’t explain why Flint also always carried at least two obscenely soft handkerchiefs, or why he regularly switched out the pillows and throw blankets in the common room when they got too stained or fell below his standards for soft and fluffy. He was also always touching people, slinging an arm around someone or ruffling their hair, wrestling with the boys or twirling the girls to get a laugh.

When Flint lay down on the rug in front of the main hearth to flip through Quidditch magazines—a spot usually reserved for only the most important and dominant of seventh years—shy little first year Halle Harper—who was having a hard time adjusting to being away from home for the first time and was being teased ever since someone had started the rumor that she was a half-blood or maybe even muggleborn—would climb on his back and fall asleep to the rhythm of his breathing, and even the most self-important of seventh years didn’t dare wake her up and order her away from the fire, much less say a word against sixth year Flint. 

Flint would do just about anything for a fellow snake, especially if they came to him with a sob story or he stumbled across someone crying. He seemed to like taking care of members of his house almost as much as he liked making other houses cry at Quidditch matches. Harry had viewed that with skepticism until his own personal experience last year. Flint had found Harry hiding behind a suit of armor on the second floor with wet eyes, dry cheeks, and bloody wounds, clutching his wand in a white-knuckled fist and trembling with impotent rage and resentment after being pushed down a moving staircases by fellow Slytherins Bole and Derrick and then laughed at by a passing group of Gryffindors when he’d landed with his arse in the air. Not saying anything, Flint had sat down next to Harry, tossed an arm over his shoulders, and passed over two handkerchiefs—one for his bloody elbows and knees and one for his running nose and split lip. Once Harry had cleaned himself up, Flint escorted him all the way back to his dorm room, glaring at anyone who thought to look at them funny. The entire time they never exchanged a single word.

Harry didn’t expect anything more to come of it, but starting the day after and continuing for almost three glorious weeks, whenever Bole and Derrick saw him coming they left the room or turned around and went the opposite direction. The explanation for their change in behavior was as obvious as it was inexplicable. Flint rarely talked to Harry and barely even acknowledged that he existed. Why would he defend Harry like that? Even the other students and teachers hadn’t done anything, though it was possible Snape had been too busy talking to Quirrell to see Harry on the floor as he’d swept by. Possible, but not likely. Flint hadn’t asked anything for his help either. Harry couldn’t get up the courage to ask him why or even say thanks. 

Harry didn’t know what to think about Flint. During last year’s notoriously vicious Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, he’d almost single-handedly managed to put all of Hufflepuff’s main line plus their reserve Keeper and reserve Beater in the hospital wing before Terence finally put them out of their misery and caught the Snitch. Harry usually hated bullies, yet Flint was in Harry’s house and had protected him. Harry couldn’t hate Marcus Flint. He didn’t know what to feel, though mixed in there was discomfort with a whole lot of admiration and respect.

Still holding onto Harry’s shoulder, Terence locked eyes with Flint. “Just give Harry a fair chance at making Seeker.”

“Scarhead’s a loser who wants to be a celebrity,” Bole snorted and nudged Derrick. “He’s a Lockhart wannabe. Next thing we know he’ll be dying his hair, acting out his supposedly greatest moments, and swishing around offering people autographed photos.” They snickered. 

Harry didn’t spare them a glance, shoving down his irritation and reminding himself that they were unimportant to his goals. He kept his focus on Flint. “I want to play quidditch. I want to win.” He kept his chin up and his gaze stedy.

Head tilting, expression unreadable, Flint looked Harry up and down and spoke to Terence. “He’s small and fast, I’ll give you that. I suppose he might have a chance if even the Dark Lord couldn’t take him down.” The other boys stirred uneasily while Harry’s heart jumped in glee. “But Professor Snape hates him and Malfoy’s so desperate to be on the team that his father is offering to buy us new brooms. I won’t risk offending Mr. Malfoy or turn down new Nimbus 2001s for me and my mates.” 

Harry’s happiness snuffed out like a candle. Clenching his jaw to hide his devastation, angry at the injustice, Harry lifted his chin and stepped forward, looking up into Flint’s dispassionate eyes. “I’d be the best Seeker Slytherin has ever had. I’d snap every bone in my body before I let the other team get to the Snitch first. Would Draco do that? He’s uneasy going too fast for fear he’ll mess up his hairdo.” That got a laugh from the group, as Draco’s vanity was well-known. “If you want to win, you’ll pick me for Seeker. If you love the game as much as I think you do, you’ll pick me.”

“Big words from a little snake,” Flint said slowly, crossing his arms and making his biceps bulge as he looked down his nose at Harry. “Prove you mean it at tryouts. We’ll see what happens.” Walking past, Flint unexpectedly reached out and ruffled Harry’s hair with one of his meaty hands before continuing on towards the castle at a loping pace, the rest of the boys scrambling in his wake.

“You’re going to have to really wow us, but I believe in you, Harry,” Terence said, walking backwards without stumbling. Cupping his hands, he called, “If you really mean that about the broken bones, go talk to Valeria Basavilbaso about training you. She’s mean as a snake in a houseful of snakes, but she taught me all my craziest tricks.” Tossing a thumbs up, he spun around and ran off to catch up with his friends.

-oo0oo-

Harry was willing to do just about anything to get on the Quidditch team, even talk to the scary people in his house he’d done his best to avoid up until now. Sixth year Slytherin Valeria Basavilbaso was a petite witch with dark brown skin, close-cropped curls, and exotically uptilted eyes. She’d played Seeker her third year with Flint, almost effortlessly caught the Snitch in every game, and then quit the team after they’d won the house cup. 

Blaise had heard that Valeria quitting was due to a lack of interest in playing well with others and, despite her reputation as one of the most talented Seekers Slytherin had ever fielded, everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when she’d quit because she’d put members of her own team in the hospital just as often as members of opposing houses, most notably putting Flint in the hospital wing for almost two weeks. She was powerful because she scared people, not because of followers or alliances. Blaise added that only people who were suicidal drew Valeria’s attention before patting Harry hard on the back. “Good luck! I promise to take care of Hedwig after you die and eat a treacle tart in your honor.”

Screwing up his courage, Harry found Valeria walking down the corridor leading into the dungeons and approached with hand extended. “Hi I’m—” 

Before he could finish his introduction, Valeria flicked her wand and cast a rapid series of spells, flinging him upside-down against the opposite wall with enough force to make him cross-eyed and sticking him there before continuing on at an unhurried pace. 

Blaise came by a few minutes later and found Harry still stuck upside-down with his face Gryffindor red from pooling blood and embarrassment. Laughing himself silly, Blaise left to go get help, returning with Miles, who thankfully was old enough and sneaky enough to know how to cancel the spells and get Harry down. 

On entering the common room to see Valeria reading in an emerald green armchair in the corner, Harry took a deep breath and set his jaw. He was determined to make the team as Seeker. He wouldn’t give up so easily. 

Seeing his expression, Blaise scrambled away with a clap on the back and a whispered, “Good luck and don’t die!” He took up a safe position across the room to observe.

Deciding bold was better than sneaky when it came to someone so much more powerful, Harry marched straight up to her chair. “Terence-sent-me,” he said as quickly as possible in a single breath, hoping it would win him time to explain more fully. 

It didn’t. 

He found himself falling, landing hard on his side with his knees and elbows stuck together by what looked and smelled like wads of greenish-yellow troll snot. He tried not to gag at the stench. “Please train me,” he begged thickly. In the background he heard snickering, but he didn’t bother turning to look and see who was enjoying his humiliation. It would (hopefully) be worth it if Valeria got him onto the team.

Examining him like he was a bug in her pumpkin juice, at last Valeria closed her book and leaned forward. “Explain, and speak slowly unless you want me to turn your eyebrows into flesh-eating slugs before I walk away.” Steepling her hands, she watched him without giving anything away. The flames from the hearth flickered menacingly in her dark eyes.

Sweat trickled down Harry’s cheek and his stomach churned with acid. “I want to be on the Quidditch team. Terence said to ask you for Seeker training. I heard that you’re the best Seeker Slytherin has had in years and Terence said you taught him all his best tricks. He also said I could use his broom to practice for tryouts. Please train me. I’m talented, a hard worker, and I don't give up.”

“Anything else?” She quirked an eyebrow.

Harry’s mind raced, looking for arguments. “Professor McGonagall said she’d have put me on her team as Seeker last year if I’d been in Gryffindor. I… I really need to wow Flint at tryouts if I’m going to have a chance against—well, the competition.” Harry stumbled, almost telling her about Mr. Malfoy’s bribe but stopping at the last moment because he didn’t want to seem like he was whining or, even worse, a lost cause. “I want to help Slytherin win the house cup. I want to win.”

Valeria sighed and stood up, looking down at him where he lay stuck on the ground. “If you want to impress Flint, you’ll need to impress me first. I’ll suppose I can give you one week. If you survive, I’ll train you the next week until tryouts.”

“Thank you!” Harry beamed up at her.

“Not so fast, kid.” She curled her lip. “Don’t smile at me like that. I’m not nice. I do this, you’re gonna owe me.”

“Of course,” Harry said, willing to agree to just about anything, his heart practically bursting from his chest at getting her to agree.

“You do everything I say when I say it without complaint. You don’t flirt, eat, sleep, or take a crap without my say so,” she kicked him in the thigh with the pointed toe of her boot, making him wince. It felt like it would leave a bruise. “And you better be as good as everyone says you are or this won’t end well for you.” Harry gulped at the look on her face, his happiness see-sawing to fear.. “If you’re too slow to keep up or irritate me, I’ll transfigure your clothing into raw meat and dump you in the forbidden forest to be eaten by acromantulas. If I put in all of this effort and you still don’t make the team, thereby reflecting badly on me in front of Captain Flint and Slytherin, I’ll make you wish you were the boy-who- _died_.” Harry blanched, feeling like his organs had turned into blocks of ice. “Well?” She arched her brow and tapped a toe impatiently.

“Yes, Valeria,” he answered quickly, hoping he hadn’t just signed his death warrant.

Valeria flicked her wand, freeing his elbows and knees with a *slurp* that removed the goo but not the stench. She picked up her book and turned to go. “We’ll start tomorrow at dawn. If you’re late, I’ll kill you in your sleep.” 

Harry wasn’t entirely sure that was a figure of speech. He nodded furiously just in case. “I’ll be here, Valeria. Promise. And thank you.”

-oo0oo-

At dinner, most of Slytherin acted like Harry was eating his last meal. Miles hummed a dirge everytime Harry looked in his direction before breaking into snickers. Much less friendly, Derrick and Bole kept acting out all the gruesome ways they expected him to die. Ever since the letter he’d received that morning from his father, Draco had been too distracted in class and at meals to add his usual witty comments, but Vincent and Greg laughed loudly at everyone else’s jokes, especially the really gruesome ones. 

Seeing Harry’s mounting panic, Blaise patted him soothingly on the back and spooned more vegetables onto his plate. “You’re going to do fine, mate. You always do.”

When Harry saw Hermione’s friendly face across the hall at the Gryffindor table, he raised his arm to give her a big wave, feeling like a drowning man trying to flag down a rescue craft. He desperately needed some encouragement not couched in teasing, maybe even a hug, not that he’d ever admit that out loud. Luckily Hermione was a natural hugger when emotions got high—both her own or others. 

Before Hermione could see, Blaise yanking his arm down and slamming it against the table. “No flirting, remember!” Blaise said urgently.

Harry felt himself pale as he looked over to see if Valeria had noticed him waving hello, decided he was flirting without permission, and dropped him before they’d even started his training. Luckily she was too focused on the hissed discussion between Flint and his girlfriend—though it sounded like after tonight she’d be his ex-girlfriend—at the other end of the table and hadn’t seemed to notice. 

“Thanks,” he breathed to Blaise.

When Harry finished eating, arm still aching, he remembered the conversation with McGonagall and snuck off to the trophy room to distract himself. He decided not to mention it to anyone. He was in no mood to put up with more teasing and speculations on his training with the scary Valeria. He also didn’t need Blaise’s increasingly false assurances about how Mr. Malfoy’s bribery wouldn’t affect his chances of getting on the team. Harry needed something hopeful and undisputedly _true_. He wanted to see his father’s name on a Quidditch plaque, something to connect him to the past and reassure him that the almost certain pain of the next two weeks training with Valeria would be worth it.

The trophy room was empty of people and brightly lit, glittering on every side from the awards, trophies, cups, plates, shields, statues, and medals that filled the glass display cases. When Harry turned his head just right, the lights glared off his glasses and left him practically blind. In pride of place in the middle of the room hung displayed the list of people who’d won a Hogwarts Award for Services to the School. 

Next to it sat a plaque with the names of Hogwarts head boys and head girls, which Harry passed by dismissively until he saw something out of the corner of his eye that made him turn back. He recognized Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall, though the others looked unfamiliar. His eyes caught for a moment on the name Tom Riddle, perhaps because his scar spiked with pain the second he spied it. He wished he knew what was going on with his stupid scar and why it sometimes hurt for no good reason, like with the possessed Quirrell last year.

Rubbing his forehead, Harry was about to move on when his eyes dropped to the bottom of the plaque. His whole body jolted. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes hard, and looked again, afraid the words might’ve disappeared: 

_1977 - 1978: James Potter and Lily Evans_. 

His parents. A roaring filled his ears. Feeling weak, Harry dropped to his knees, ignoring the flash of pain when his sore wrist knocked against the floor. His fingers trembled as he traced over the letters. He couldn’t believe his luck in finding their names in the overcrowded trophy room. His mum and dad had actually been head boy and head girl together! Were they already in love then? Or had that come later? Had they whispered together about one day getting married and having a son with his black hair and her green eyes? They must’ve been absolutely amazing to both earn head status, must’ve been practically perfect. 

Breathing rapidly, Harry thought about how his parents had walked these same halls. Because he was all alone, he allowed himself to picture it, picture his parents here at Hogwarts and how they’d be so excited to know that he was here too, picture going to a home they shared and telling them all about it. His vision went cloudy as warm tears trickled down his cheeks. Sniffling, Harry rubbed an arm roughly across his face, but that just made the tears fall faster.

Ignoring the tears blinding his eyes, Harry looked around, needing to show the names to somebody, to share how extraordinary his parents had truly been… but no one was there. He was alone. Just like always, especially when he really needed someone. 

_By choice_ , a voice insisted in the back of his mind. Hermione had offered to come tomorrow but he’d refused to wait. He’d also avoided Blaise and everyone else after dinner. It wasn’t a problem when he was the one choosing to be alone. He was fine. He didn’t need anyone else.

Drying his face on the hem of his shirt, Harry stood up, more determined than ever to find more evidence of his parents’ lives at Hogwarts and of their being special people. If his dad had been head boy, then he must’ve been good enough to win Quidditch awards too. Harry just had to keep looking.

The search took a long time in the large room filled with crowded cases, but at last Harry uncovered a plaque for the winning Gryffindor Quidditch team of 1976. It listed James Potter as one of the Chasers. Harry had been hoping that his dad was a Seeker too, but just seeing his dad’s name as a winner was still amazing. Quidditch was something they could share now. It made Harry feel closer to his dad, like maybe he’d gotten more from James Potter than just messy black hair and a need for glasses. Before leaving the room, Harry silently vowed to make his father proud. He would make the Slytherin team, no matter how difficult or scary training with Valeria proved to be. 

-oo0oo-

Dawn came very early the next morning. Harry made sure to be in the common room with Terence’s borrowed broom early, but Valeria didn’t stroll in until almost ten minutes late. Harry bit his tongue just in time. He had a feeling she wouldn’t respond well if he mentioned it. 

Training started with stretching and a sprint around the castle grounds while holding his broom overhead, followed by shuffling around with his broom clamped between his legs while lifting objects up off the ground or down from trees. After almost an hour of this, Valeria finally allowed him up into the air. What followed was a broom flight full of so many ups and downs and twists and turns that Harry could’ve turned milk into butter. Luckily his belly was empty or he would’ve puked at least twice. 

When she finally allowed him to land, she made him sprint to and from the dungeons to fetch his day planner and then had him hold a wide-legged crouch she called a thestral stance while holding his broom overhead again. Harry’s entire body shook with the effort not to collapse. Valeria went through his schedule meticulously. It was color coded thanks to Hermione’s influence. Nodding approvingly at his organization, she filled in every blank space with a task of some sort (a mix between things that sounded useful for his training and useful just for Valeria) before finally releasing him for breakfast. Harry limped into the great hall and collapsed at the table, every muscle in his body burning. His arms barely had the strength to lift his spoon from bowl to mouth. It was going to be a long two weeks.

“You look like death warmed over,” Blaise said sympathetically, pouring Harry a glass of juice and pushing it up against his fingers so he wouldn’t have to move far. “I told you training with Valeria would be brutal.”

“Issa only way I’m gonna make Seeker,” Harry slurred, wondering how he was supposed to stay awake through a full day of classes and then go train like that again later this afternoon. Right now his mind was blank. He pulled out his textbook to try and remind himself what he was supposed to be working on today in case he got called on by a teacher. The words swam before his eyes.

“You’re doing what?” Draco asked sharply. He must’ve really been distracted by his father’s letter the night before to not hear any of the gossip. Slamming his cup down on the table, sending juice sloshing everywhere, he stood up. “I’m going to be Seeker, not you, Potter,” he growled. “And you can just forget about this evening too. I don’t waste my time on losers with no family or influence.”

“Yeah, Potter’s a loser,” Vincent said. Greg joined him in snickering.

Harry had actually forgotten about the makeup chess game with Draco. It hadn’t been written on his schedule so Valeria had already penned in something else. If he was still alive at that point, he’d have had to cancel on Draco anyway. 

Huffing while adjusting the fall of his robes, Draco put a hand on his hip, lowered his chin, and glared at Harry through his pale eyelashes. Maybe he was trying to look imposing or mimic a pose of his father’s, but it just came off as silly. Harry was too exhausted to give Draco whatever reaction he’d been hoping for. He just blinked up at Draco blearily for a moment before dropping his eyes back to his book. He mouthed at his cup, trying to slurp the drink from the rim without having to use the aching muscles in his arms to lift it. Nothing on the page looked familiar. Was he even in the right chapter and subject? If his muscles started leaking out his ears could he skip class and just take a nap in the medical wing?

Draco’s hand swept over the table, knocking Harry’s book and cup onto the floor. Harry sighed and stared down at the puddle. He’d wanted to drink that. His arms were too tired to even reach for his wand or flick the bit of egg on his plate at Draco’s face. 

“Well?” When Harry still didn’t respond, Draco growled through his teeth, arms stiff at his sides, and stomped away. “Are you two baffoons coming?” he snapped. Vincent and Greg stuffed the last of their food into their mouths and scrambled to catch up with him, reaching Draco’s heels just as he swept out the doors. 

Every spare moment and thought after that was spent doing exactly what Valeria ordered him to do, including several nonsensical tasks that hopefully had a purpose and weren’t just meant to waste his time or mock him. None of those extra tasks involved Harry on a broom circling a Quidditch pitch and diving for the Snitch either. He would ask for clarification, but he was too afraid of Valeria’s response. Whenever she even suspected she was being doubted or disrespected, she instantly made the task even more embarrassing, brutal, disgusting, and irritating. The one time he’d stuttered a question about the usefulness of her methods, she’d made him go tell Madam Pomfrey that the Slytherins needed more period pain relief potions in the girls bathroom and that they boys wanted more contraceptives, leading to an excruciating twenty minute lecture on how twelve-year-olds were rather too young to be having sex yet, that potions worked much better for birth control than the rhythm method, and the effects of puberty on both body and magic. He’d only understood about half of it and ran away back to the dungeon as soon as he could get away.

Harry thought about quitting a dozen times at least, but then he’d think about his parent’s names on those plaques and having his own name on one too, and about all three names living in the same place like a real family, and forced himself to keep going.

At the end of the first week, Valeria gave him a test to see if he was worthy of a second week of her time. She filled the Quidditch Pitch with hundreds of bright blue pixies, released the Snitch, and ordered him to find and catch it. It was insanity. Harry ended up practically deaf from all of their shrill cries, missing several patches of hair, and covered in scratches, bruises, and mysterious lime green stains that he didn’t want to know the origin of. He had to go into the whirling mass of pixies to catch the Snitch four different times, though each time he got faster and faster at getting through them to catch it as he learned and adapted to their movements.

“Good enough.” While Harry lay prostrate on his broom panting, Valeria spent the next several minutes casting spells to banish and cage most of the pixies (making him wonder if some of them had just been illusions and fakes) before sending him a sharp smile. Harry got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Flying down to a trunk on the ground, she pulled out a tall stack of bags with long loops on the top that looked like they’d attach to a broom and gestured him over. “Pretend the pixies are Snitches. Catch each one, put it in a sack, and deliver them to the Defence classroom without being seen. When you’re done, you can have the rest of the day off.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed in horror as he stared out across the field. There were still at least fifty of them out there.

Valeria smiled, her teeth gleaming brightly against her dark skin. “You’re well on your way to becoming worthy of being a Slytherin Seeker, even if it means a lot of pain for you and pleasure for me. Good luck with the pixies and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.” Turning on her broom, she zipped away.

Harry gave himself a full minute to feel sorry for himself, then he picked up the bags and got to work. The bags kept replicating so he didn’t run out. Hermione came by an hour later and offered to help, followed by Blaise a bit after that, but Harry turned them both down, knowing that if Valeria found out he’d be made to regret it twice over. He never would’ve managed it with a school broom, but Terence’s Nimbus 2000 was fast enough to make it doable before nightfall. It may be an awful, mildly dangerous, and irritating task, but if it got him good enough to be on the team it would be worth it. 

(It better be worth it.)

Under Valeria’s hand, Harry lived, ate, and breathed Quidditch. He even dreamed about Quidditch. He woke up one night with his pillow between his legs and his hand outstretched as if reaching for a Snitch. During meals he was only allowed to eat the food Valeria approved, which did not include his beloved treacle tart, pumpkin juice, or fried potatoes. 

No one else seemed to be working as hard as he was, but then again, no one else had so much going against them either. Everytime he walked past them, Derrick and Bole talked loudly about how Harry was too weak and clumsy to ever make the team. Draco openly mocked his bedraggled state and asked if he was competing in class with Weasley and Longbottom for the title of most braindead. Of course, Draco was also confident that his father would make sure he got onto the team. It felt like most people agreed with him. The only people who seemed to think that Harry might have a shot at all were Hermione, Blaise, Terence, and Valeria. Flint, who was the most important vote of all, kept his thoughts to himself. There was no way to know what would happen at tryouts. Harry just had to give it his all and hope for the best. Unfortunately hope—as life had shown him time and time again—was not to be trusted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely betas Iforgottocall and dizzysappedweak! I’m behind on answering reviews, but I’ve loved all of them. Thank you so much!!! With all the stress with the US Presidential election this week and Covid 19, I hope this chapter finds you well.
> 
> Originally this story was going to have a reasonably short chapter covering all of year 2, but then I remembered that the basilisk was a big snake, and then I saw a picture of a black Hermione Quidditch player flirting with a nerdy Harry by an amazing artist whose name I forgot—which isn’t this story but which gave me thoughts—and then my mental Harry insisted on meeting more Slytherins like Flint and Valeria and playing more Quidditch and having lots of feels about both, but being a self-absorbed kid too as is natural at age 12, and suddenly second year is this huge thing spanning multiple chapters! We fought over the next almost 30k words until I threw in the white flag, accepted that this is going to be better and bolder even if it’s also way bigger, and here we are. I plan to update about once a week and I have up to chapter 5 written so far, so stick with me. I hope you enjoy it and please leave me a comment. Cheers!


	3. Second Year - Quidditch Tryouts

When the day of Quidditch tryouts arrived, Harry had expected to see Hermione in the stands cheering him on, but she wasn’t there, just Valeria. Soon Valeria was joined by all his roommates except for Vincent, who’d gotten detention. The boys ended up cheering for both him and Draco when they flew past and pretended the two weren’t in competition for the same spot. Greg probably wouldn’t have dared cheer for Harry if Vincent had been there, but alone with Blaise and Theo, he clapped just as loudly as the rest.

Although he’d never exactly explained, Harry had thought that Hermione had understood and not minded that he’d ignored her for the last two weeks while training. Only now with her absence when he was looking for her support did he worry that he’d somehow hurt her feelings. He’d have to talk to her later, apologize and try to make it up to her, but for now he needed to put her out of his mind and focus on doing his best to make his father and Captain Flint proud.

When tryouts were over and the dust and brooms had all settled, Harry knew he had flown the pants off of everyone there. Valeria’s proud and slightly smug smile had been the icing on the cake. It just remained to be seen if it had been enough. Flint and his top advisors had stationed themselves on the field's far side to hold a lengthy consultation that seemed to go on forever, or at least much longer than usual according to those who’d tried out in previous years.

Finally Flint returned, calling together everyone who’d tried out. Clearing his throat to silence the crowd, Flint read out the names and positions of those who’d made this year’s main string and reserve teams. Harry could barely hear Flint’s voice over the pounding of blood in his ears. The first three names were veterans from last year and no surprise as Flint announced he was staying a Chaser, keeping Miles as Keeper, and switching Terence over to Chaser instead of Seeker. 

However, the other returning members of last year’s team hadn’t performed as well as Harry had expected. In fact, Harry felt like he’d outflown Adrian Pucey, a Chaser, and Artemis Vishnob and Dulcina Winstrom, the Beaters. Pucey’s performance had been surprisingly sloppy, as if he didn’t think he needed to try very hard because he’d already made the cut last year. As for the girls, they’d had slightly slower reaction times than Harry in the speed drills. However, Artemis and Dulcina were still strong, agile, and cunning players. Harry wasn’t so arrogant as to think he could hit a Bludger with the same force or accuracy as they could, much less execute complicated plays with a partner as seamlessly, not without a lot more experience. Slytherin would be crazy not to choose those two as Beaters again. 

Flint, obviously thinking the same thing, jumped past the name of the third Chaser and announced Artemis and Dulcina as Beaters. He was getting to the end of the list, but there was no way Harry hadn’t made the team. Everyone had to see that Harry had earned the position of Seeker. 

So it felt like being impaled through the chest with a sword when Flint called out Draco Malfoy’s name. Sight and sound wavered. Harry’s knees almost gave out and the air turned to thorns in his throat. He’d given it his all… and still failed. Harry put his head down and took a shaky step backwards, wanting to leave quickly in case the stinging in his eyes turned into traitorous tears.

However, Draco’s ringing voice made his next step back falter. “Wait, did you say Chaser? Me?”

Blinking rapidly, just as confused as Draco, Harry’s head shot up as he turned all his attention back on Flint, who consulted the scroll in his hand before looking back at Draco. “Yep. Draco Malfoy. Chaser. Unless you’re turning it down?”

“No!” Draco exclaimed, pale eyes shining and blond hair dishevelled from flight. “I mean, I’d love to be a Chaser! I just didn’t think anyone below fifth year had a chance at that position, much less a second year.” The sour looks exchanged by the other hopefuls showed that everyone else had thought the same thing. 

Beaming, Draco strutted to the front of the crowd and joined the group of those who’d made the team so far. “Though I am a Malfoy and Malfoys are always exceptional.” He ran a hand through his hair and bounced on his feet. “Wait until my father hears about this!”

People were casting sideways looks at the huffing and red-faced Adrian Pucey, who’d obviously expected to be picked to play the Chaser position again. With Flint, Terence, and Draco as the team’s three Chasers, the best Pucey could now hope for was a spot on the reserve team.

Though if Draco had been made Chaser, that meant that the position of Seeker was still open, which meant….

Flint looked over and met Harry’s eyes, the corner of his lip curling up faintly. “For our final spot, Harry Potter. Seeker.” 

A triumphant roaring filled Harry’s ears. He’d done it! He’d made the team! Grinning from ear to ear, feeling like he could fly even without a broom, Harry ran over to join his new team, almost tripping over his own feet. Chuckling, Flint ruffled his hair before turning back to read the names of everyone who’d made the reserve team before dismissing the rest. 

Whooping, Terence grabbed him in a big hug and spun him around. “That’s my boy, Harry! You did it!”

As soon as Terence released him a laughing Miles slapped him on the back and gave him a hearty shake. “I can’t believe you did it! Good for you!” 

Artemis and Dulcina both gave him smiles and firm handshakes. “Welcome to the team, Harry.”

When Harry got to Draco, the other boy hesitated for a moment before condescending enough to give Harry a slight nod instead of the vicious scowls Harry had grown used to.“Teammates, huh?” Draco smirked, though something brittle lurked in the back of his eyes. “Then for the good of the team I suppose I should say congratulations, Potter.” After a beat of silence he held out his hand. “Harry.”

It felt like the world was holding its breath as Harry looked at that pale, outstretched hand. Harry had a choice. He could snub Draco’s public peace offering and humiliate him, or he could accept it and act like they were friends again. Either way his choice would be judged by the people watching and be put in their mental file about his character. It would impact his standing in Slytherin for good or ill. Part of Harry didn’t want to take that hand, wanted to slap it away, sneer, and make it clear that all Draco’s petty offenses would be avenged in full, not forgotten and swept under the rug. Harry hadn’t realized how angry he really was at Draco until he had the power to refuse him something he wanted.

But, Harry also realized, having power meant he got to choose what kind of powerful person he was going to be—the kind who made people shrink down or the kind who made them stand taller. He’d rejected the idea of power at any cost when the Sorting Hat had first sung about it. Weighing costs and benefits before taking action was an important part of finding success. Harry wanted to be rational, but it was hard with emotion filling your belly and surging up your throat. At times like this, he just had to go with his gut. 

Exhaling hard, Harry reached out, took Draco’s hand, and focused on how he’d felt when Flint had called his name. “You too, Draco. Congrats on making the team.” Saying it helped him to feel it. Feeling victorious over both his worst nature and everything trying to keep him from making the team, Harry pumped Draco’s hand. 

Draco’s face softened into a surprisingly genuine smile. Harry had done that. He’d used his power to make Draco smile instead of frown. He decided to see if he could do more. “Isn’t it great? You’re a Chaser at twelve! And me Seeker!”

“Yeah!” Draco’s mouth stretched into a wide grin. “I wonder if that’s a record? We’ll have to check,” Draco said smugly, shifting to stand shoulder to shoulder with Harry in front of all their housemates, once more an ally.

All in all it was one of the best moments of Harry’s entire life. He looked towards the stands for Hermione, wanting to share it with one of his biggest supporters and friends, only to remember that she hadn’t shown up to watch. Then again, she was a Gryffindor. Maybe she’d worried that she’d get bullied all alone in the Slytherin stands or had tried and been blocked from staying in thoughts that she was a spy. Shrugging off the pang in his chest, Harry returned to celebrating with his new team and making sure he met all of the reserve players.

After a few minutes, Valeria sauntered over with a wide smile more suited to a shark. “Well done, Harry. I had my doubts, but you did me proud.” 

“Thanks, Valeria,” Harry said past the lump in his throat. Hearing her say that meant a lot.

Ignoring the rest of the team, who were eying her warily, she turned to the much taller Flint, dropped her smile, and shot him a scorching look. “If you waste all the training I poured into this boy, I’ll make you regret it.” 

Miles blanched and stepped sideways to hide behind Beaters Dulcina and Artemis.

“Every year there’s some sort of threat,” Flint muttered, shaking his head and stepping closer to look down his nose at her. “Stop scaring my team, Basavilbaso. Only I get to do that.” He frowned down at her and crossed his arms.

Sending him a look of patent disbelief, Valeria scoffed and rolled her eyes. “This team could use a little more scaring considering the show most of them put on out there today, especially considering a mere second year scraped by a veteran Chaser, a supposedly trained veteran who flew more like a first year who’d drunk his daddy’s bottle of firewhiskey. They better work hard if they want to win any matches this year.” She turned a cold expression on the group, pausing on Draco and wrinkling her nose. “I won’t stand for our house losing the cup this year because one of you got… lazy. I wouldn’t like that at all.” Draco gulped and slid back behind the Beaters to cower with Miles, Valeria’s eyes tracking him the entire time like prey. 

Even after two weeks, Harry wasn’t immune to it, slowly sliding in the opposite direction away from Draco and out of her direct line of sight, just in case.

“Basavilbaso.” Flint shifted to block her view.

She blinked and looked up at him with a suspiciously innocent expression. “Yes?”

“This is my team. My team always wins.” Flint took her shoulders and turned her around, giving her a push back in the direction of the castle. “Go on.”

Everyone dropped their brooms and ran, expecting gouts of blood and severed limbs and too scared to fly up into the air and become her first target. 

To Harry’s shock, Valeria didn’t even draw her wand, merely twitching her shoulders and walking away. “Just remember team,” she called over her shoulder sweetly, “I’ll torture anyone who screws up. Starting with,” her voice dropped to a fell register, “your _beloved_ Captain.” She shot Flint a hard look from the corner of her eye and sashayed away.

Flint grunted thoughtfully, head tilting to the side. His eyes dropped to her swinging hips and paused, as if mesmerized. “Oh.” Eyes widening, he hit himself on the head and cupped his hands around his mouth, “Basavilbaso!

Her step hitched but she didn’t stop.

“Valeria,” he said, voice quieter but even more commanding. 

Jerking to a stop, she put a hand on her hip and looked over her shoulder at him with a scowl, the strands of her beaded golden earrings swaying. “What?”

Flint caught her eyes and inclined his head. “I accept your invitation to Hogsmeade.”

Valeria’s wand shot into her hand.

Everyone gasped and those brave souls who’d thought to come out of hiding dropped to their hands and knees as they scrambled away to safer cover, hoping to survive the carnage to come with at least one of their limbs intact. 

Valeria swung around to face Flint with fire in her eyes and marched back, her wand raised threateningly. “Excuse me?” she hissed. “What did you say to me?”

Harry ended up hiding with Draco behind the rattling trunk holding the Bludgers. He wanted to keep his head down so he didn’t lose an eye or nose, but his curiosity about what would happen next was too strong. Cautiously he peeked over the top edge.

“Hogsmeade,” Flint put his hands on his hips, one corner of his mouth turning up in a crooked smile that made him look almost dashing. “I’m taking you this weekend. I finally figured it out... all those times you knocked me off my broom during games, how you trained my last two Seekers, the threats to my team, to me… you’re flirting. I like it. I like you. A lot. You’re cute and small and vicious. I bet we could even fit on one broom together. I’d like to try, but in private.”

“You—you!” she sputtered, her dark cheeks sporting a red glow as the wand in her fingers went slack.

“Yep, you and me.” He nodded with a smugly satisfied smile. “See you Saturday. I’ll look forward to it, but for now I’ve got a team to greet and a season to win.” Tossing her a salute, he fearlessly turned his back on her and walked over to his cowering and awestruck team. 

Valeria’s eyes glittered as they narrowed on his back. She breathed in sharply, her wand clutched in a white-knucked fist. “If you’re playing with me, _Marcus_ , I’ll dye the curtains red with your blood and present them to Oliver Wood as a gift to hang in the Gryffindor common room.” Whirling on her heel with a hiss, she strode off, snatching a broom from the slack grip of a dumbfounded Dulcina and zipping off into the sky like a rocket until she’d disappeared from view.

People slowly crawled out of hiding. Harry realized he’d been all wrong about Flint. There was no doubt that if he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin, he definitely would’ve been a Gryffindor instead of a Hufflepuff after that act of suicidal bravery. Not asking but _telling_ Valeria that she could date him? And then _turning_ his back on her instead of waiting for her to hex him or say yes or no? Harry hadn’t thought that he and the rest of the team could respect Flint anymore than they already did. 

Obviously he’d been wrong. 

-oo00oo-

The following Monday, Harry still felt like he was walking on clouds. He floated into breakfast and down to his first class of the day, Potions with the Gryffindors and Professor Snape. When Hermione came in she met his eyes from across the classroom, brow furrowed and eyes questioning. When Harry beamed at her and nodded, mimicking catching a Snitch with his hand, she clapped her hands gleefully and laughed out loud, attracting several strange glances from her housemates. Luckily Snape wasn’t there yet or he would’ve taken away house points from her for sure. 

Taking her seat, Hermione mouthed something to him. Harry had no clue what she was saying. She mouthed it again more slowly. _Meow, ID goo, butona reori_. Was there going to be a mysterious goo called butona reori that came from a cat used in their potions today? Harry jotted down what she’d said for later, just in case. Seeing his incomprehension when he looked back up, she sighed, gave him a secret little smile, and mouthed, _later_. That word, at least, he understood.

Unfortunately, Professor Snape made Harry stay after class for a lecture on improving his attitude and learning humility, so he wasn’t able to catch her. After belaboring all of his faults as a student, Snape moved on to the topic of making sure Harry remembered that Quidditch was about the team, not individual glory, and that if Harry got too distracted posing for the cheering crowds and missed the Snitch, consequently making Slytherin lose, he would be made to regret it. The warning was worded to make it sound like his peers would be the ones punishing him, but Harry could hear the threat under the words about Snape himself making Harry’s life a living hell (as if he wasn’t already). 

Halfway through the lecture, the voice of poison and ice started whispering through the walls about hunger and biting into warm flesh, making the whole experience even more “special.” Harry’s stomach felt tight as he thought about what Snape was saying. It was already bad enough with the way everyone snickered when Professor Lockhart made him come up to the front of class to reenact scenes from those stupid books. Being hated for losing a game would probably be a whole lot worse.

“Do you understand, Potter?” Only Snape could spit out his name with that level of disdain. Even Draco at his worst hadn’t managed it.

“I’ll do my best for my team and my house, Professor,” Harry said vaguely, trying to sound humble instead of belligerent. 

Lips twisting, Snape grunted and dismissed him from the room.

-ooOoo-

The first Quidditch match of the season was Slytherin against Gryffindor. It took place in less than a month on the first weekend in November. Everyone was excited. Gryffindor was fielding the same team as last year and, since Slytherin had only barely scraped by with a win, Flint wanted everyone in top shape. He was determined to make Oliver Wood cry this year, even if they had to be tears of blood. 

They practiced at least three times a week and whenever Flint could secure the Quidditch pitch from the other teams so the new mix of players could learn how to work well together. Draco whined about the schedule and how hard Flint was training them, but Harry could only shake his head and laugh when he compared it to what he’d gone through under Valeria’s iron fist. 

In the rush of establishing new relationships with Slytherins who were suddenly interested in talking to him—the girls in second and third year were actually kind of fun but boy were they vicious pool sharks when it came to gobstones (Harry had quickly learned to ignore their fluttering lashes and coy smiles and not bet anything he didn’t mind losing against them)—he never quite managed to find the time to track down Hermione to catch up. Multiple times, especially that first week after he made the team, Harry saw her waiting in the hall for him, shifting from foot to foot, but even though he’d intended on going over, he always got distracted by a classmate or a professor and by the time he looked up again she’d given up and rushed off to her next class. Harry wasn’t used to being popular for something he enjoyed, like Quidditch, versus something uncomfortable, like Voldemort and his parents’ murders. It was unexpectedly nice. 

Of course, he’d earned new enemies by making the team too. Adrian Pucey, who’d ignored Harry’s existence up until now, decided that it was Harry’s fault that he’d lost his Chaser position and been shifted back onto the reserve team. He hated Draco too, but didn’t bully him half as much as Harry, perhaps fearing the Malfoy family name or because Draco went almost everywhere with Greg and Vincent as backup, while Harry sometimes felt the need to go off on his own. In addition to jinxing him in the hallways, Pucey kept putting flobberworms and even worse things in Harry’s Quidditch things until Terence asked Harry point-blank in the locker room where that horrible smell and mysterious slime kept coming from. On finding out about Harry’s troubles, he and Miles warded Harry’s locker so no one but Harry could open it anymore. 

Determined to stop being treated like a victim, much less lose more face amongst the other students and his team, Harry brainstormed with his friends and made a plan. Artemis picked him up a few things from Zonko’s on the next Hogsmeade weekend since he wasn’t allowed to go until third year. The following week, Harry used his invisibility cloak to sneak into Pucey’s bathroom cubby in the middle of the night and coat the bristles of Pucey’s hairbrush with one of Zonko’s newest joke potions. Pucey was almost as vain about his hair as Draco. 

At breakfast the next morning, Harry walked behind Pucey at the table and flicked a few drops of the activator solution onto the back of Pucey’s hair while Blaise played lookout and waited to provide a distraction if necessary. Two minutes later, with Harry and his friends sitting far down at the other end of the table trying to look innocent, Pucey’s hair abruptly poofed out from his head like a gigantic dandelion gone to seed. The entire table erupted into laughter. Hands lifting to his head and feeling around, Pucey shouted and jumped to his feet, the poofy white strands swaying with each movement. He looked around in a rage before stopping to glare at the Weasley twins at the Gryffindor table. 

A knot of Ravenclaws pushed through the doors from outside on their way into breakfast, letting in a gust of wind. White dandelion fluff flew up off of Pucey’s head and swirled around the Great Hall, several pieces flying all of the way up to the staff table and landing in Headmaster Dumbledore’s porridge. Students looked over and laughed, with several of the teachers even covering their mouths to hide amusement.

The Weasley twins stood up with wide grins. “Why didn’t we try that!” one of them cried, pointing at Pucey and laughing.

“I know, Fred! He’s quite the dandylion for someone who is neither attractive enough to be a _dandy_ , nor brave enough to be a _lion_ ,” said George (presumably). 

Fred nodded and rubbed his chin. “But maybe the snake’s just sad he wasn’t good enough to get into Gryffindor.”

“I _see_ d what you mean. In fact, those seeds are getting everywhere, including the food!” Laughing uproariously, the two leaned into each other and fell back down onto their bench.

Face beet red and white poofs flying from his head at every jerking movement, Pucey stomped from the hall, trailing floating white seeds in his wake. Instead of going to the infirmary, he tried to fix it himself in the nearest bathroom. By the time he’d given up and gone for help, it was too late. Madam Pomfrey was able to cancel the effects of the potion, but not before Pucey had lost all but a few long strands of hair from behind one ear and the base of his neck. His hair looked so stupid that he ended up shaving his head bald. 

Unable to handle the humiliation or prove who’d done it, though Harry’s and his friends’ smirks were obvious signs of guilt, Pucey started taking out his temper on everyone who crossed his path. Most people took to avoiding him and his social status plummeted, but there was only so much you could do when you all lived in the same dungeon. The final straw came when Pucey screamed at little Halle Harper for daring to bump his arm while passing into the inner circle of furniture reserved for important people, despite the fact that she was only on her way to take her usual nap on top of Flint’s back. 

One minute Pucey was yelling at the cowering Halle and the next, Flint had rolled to his feet, fisted the shoulder of Pucey’s robe, and yanked him backwards, toppling him over. Flint ignored Pucey’s sputtering and dragged him out of the room with his robe strangling his throat and his heels drumming against the floor. 

When they eventually came back, Pucey had a swollen eye, mushrooms for teeth, and a mumbled, blanket apology for everyone in Slytherin House. His bad behavior had also lost him his spot on the reserve Quidditch team, which meant Harry barely had to see him at all anymore. All in all, Harry’s prank had worked out wonderfully.

In all the excitement of bonding with his new team and dealing with Pucey, Harry hadn’t meant to forget about Hermione, but it was hard to run into someone in another house to talk unless you were paired for a project or planned it in advance, especially when you didn’t have much spare time to start with and that other person was a girl you didn’t want people to think you were crushing on. To make it even harder, Hermione stopped hanging around so much after class waiting for him. It seemed her housemates had finally decided to start including her more (which was great for her but not so much for Harry). He thought about trying to track her down in the library, but the whole point was talking and she always sat by Madam Pince where you weren’t allowed to talk, so that tact seemed doomed to failure. Doing something about his friendship with Hermione kept getting pushed down his list of priorities as the first, most important, and most contentious game of the Quidditch season rapidly approached. 

First, however, Harry had to get through Halloween. When October 31st dawned, Harry woke up feeling out of sorts. The anniversary of his parent’s deaths hurt in multiple ways. He missed the idea of having parents more than the people themselves because he didn’t remember them at all and knew more lies than truths about who they’d really been, which made him feel guilty, ashamed, and angry. It wasn’t something he knew how to talk to his roommates about. Blaise would probably make light of it in an attempt to make Harry feel better, but end up making him feel worse instead, Theo would give him a platitude and store the information away in case he needed it later, Vincent and Greg would either misunderstand or use it to mock him, and Draco, despite the fact that he’d unexpectedly declared a ceasefire and decided to be friendly to Harry for the sake of house unity, would probably turn it around to make it about himself. Besides, everyone was excited for the Halloween feast and Harry didn’t want to be the one to ruin that. 

However, the pressure in his chest worsened the longer he thought about it. It felt like it needed to get out somehow, even if that meant getting into a fight with someone. Sucking on a tooth, he knew Hermione would give him disappointed eyes for fighting with someone for no good reason, especially since he’d probably end up fighting someone in Gryffindor. He didn’t like disappointing Hermione. She was a good listener and easy to talk to when it came to sensitive and uncomfortable topics. 

In fact, it had been much too long since he’d talked to her at all. Staring blankly at the green curtains surrounding his bed, Harry did a rough calculation and winced at realizing that he hadn’t talked to Hermione in over a month. He was a horrible friend! Harry knew he needed to try harder. Since he had class with Gryffindor later that day, he promised himself that he’d find her then, apologize, and try to mend their friendship. 

After class, Harry had barely taken two steps down the path with his sight set on Hermione, when he was slammed to the side by Ron Weasley. “Stay with the snakes where you belong, Potter,” Weasley snarled. “Leave her out of your dark plans. She won’t help you cheat.” 

“That’s not—” Harry started to defend himself hotly, but Weasley wasn’t listening and didn’t care as he raced ahead. 

“Stupid Weasel,” Draco seethed, coming up by his side. “His manners are as poor as his parents. How dare he treat you like that!” As if Draco himself hadn’t been encouraging Greg and Vincent to knock Harry around for the last two months. Obviously it was different when a Gryffindor tried to do it. Harry tried not to grind his teeth or let Draco see the direction of his thoughts.

Up ahead, Weasley grabbed Hermione’s arm, pulling her with him towards a group on the branching pathway up ahead that included the older Weasley twins. They were Beaters for the Gryffindor team and infamous pranksters, often targeting the younger, more gullible and defenseless students, especially younger Slytherins. They greeted their brother and Hermione affably and then looked over Ron’s head at Harry, meeting Harry’s glare with identical snooty expressions. One of the twins pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at Harry. The other cut a thumb across his neck. Their message was clear.

Neville Longbottom, bag almost falling off his shoulder and scrolls and books looking like they might spill out at any moment, scurried down the middle of the path after the group when he’d realized he had fallen behind into the pack of Slytherins. Harry didn’t blame him since Draco, Greg, and Vincent could be little jerks to the timid and awkward Gryffindor, but it was still annoying that Longbottom was further blocking Harry’s path to Hermione. Harry just wanted to talk to her. He tried moving to the other side of the path to see if he could get around the group to Hermione that way, but the Weasleys caught sight of him and shifted in a red mass to block him, only allowing Longbottom through before closing ranks again. Hermione remained oblivious to the maneuverings, busy greeting the boy and answering a stupid question Ron Weasley was loudly asking about class, probably to keep her attention up front and turned away from Harry.

Seething, Harry stomped after them into a courtyard many students used as a shortcut between different parts of the castle. Feeling the hair rising on his neck, Harry looked over and found a redheaded girl, probably another Weasley, watching him with a creepy, unblinking stare, her mouth hanging open. It made him uncomfortable and reminded him of seeing her with her family at the bookstore just before school started.

“Ginny!” Ron Weasley snapped, making the girl jump. Seeing Harry looking at her, she blushed bright red and hid her face behind a book that looked too thin to be a first year textbook, though he felt like he’d seen it before. Ron glared at Harry over his sister’s head and yanked the girl towards Hermione and the twins, putting another person in Harry’s way. Harry decided that he quite disliked the entire Weasley family and that he wasn’t going to do a thing to discourage Draco the next time he decided to jinx Ron in the halls after class. 

Blaise appeared and slung an arm over Harry’s shoulder, joining him in staring at the group of Gryffindors. Ginny peeked over her brother’s shoulder at Harry and, seeing him still looking, squeaked and dropped her eyes again. “And another Gryffindor girl falls for your dubious charms. What is it about you that attracts them? Is it the big round glasses? The skinny little legs?” 

“Get off!” Harry shoved Blaise away, feeling his face go uncomfortably hot. “It’s not like I want her staring at me.”

“Is the firsty not your type? I don’t blame you. Too much red, flat as a board, yuck face, not to mention the horrible relatives.” Blaise shuddered. 

“Yuck is right, and—hey! Where’d she get that book?” Draco glared daggers at the Weasley girl, making her shrink farther back behind her brothers until she’d almost disappeared. “She shouldn’t have that, the little thief.” He fumed, lips pursing. “It belongs to my father. I remember seeing him slip it into his pocket on the day I went book shopping. Wait until he hears about this!”

“Oh,” Harry snapped his fingers, “that’s right. I saw him with it too, but she didn’t steal it, he gave it to her. It was weird.” He shrugged and batted away a fly buzzing around his face.

“What?” Draco transferred his scowl to Harry.

Lowering his voice, Harry gathered the other boys into a clump so no one else could overhear, shifting to make sure Greg and Vincent especially weren’t at his back. Despite Draco’s change of heart, he still didn’t trust them. “I saw—the day most everyone went to Diagon Alley to buy books for school? It was the weirdest thing. Remember how the store was full because of Lockhart’s book signing? I saw your father so I followed him inside looking for you, not knowing he didn’t want us being friends anymore.” Harry paused to scowl at Draco.

“Yes yes, we all know about my father’s negative feelings about you.” Draco waved it off as if it was merely another bothersome fly and not the thing that had damaged their relationship and made Harry’s second year so much harder. “Get to the point about my father and his book.”

Harry huffed. “Anyway, I’d forgotten what a self-absorbed prat you are so I was following him to find you and say hello, but when I saw Ron Weasley lumbering in my direction I ducked around a bookshelf. Weasley’s little sister dropped her Transfiguration book without noticing and your father picked it up and slid that little book inside. Then he just slipped the books into her cauldron and disappeared into the crowd without saying anything. I don’t think she even noticed. Even I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been looking straight at him at the right moment.”

Blaise wrinkled his nose. “That is weird.”

“Harry, are you sure you saw it right? You do wear glasses, after all,” Draco asked condescendingly.

“Yes, _Draco_. If I can see well enough to catch a Snitch, I can see well for other things.”

Draco crossed his arms and lifted his nose into the air. “Well, I’m sure my father had a good reason for it, whatever it was. I know he looks down on the Weasleys even more than he does you.”

Blaise rolled his eyes and swatted Draco with his bag. “Your father hates everybody lately.”

“No he doesn’t,” Draco dropped his arms and glared at him.

“Name one person he’s said something nice about this year.” Blaise snorted. “And you don’t count.”

Draco flushed and looked down, taking a quick breath. His lips pressed tight and he swallowed, looking strangely soft. Blaise and Harry exchanged a startled glance. Draco often got upset, but not like this. Anger usually just made him sharper. 

“Alright, mate, you can include yourself after all. I was only teasing,” Blaise coaxed, his voice dropping so the other students in the courtyard couldn’t hear whatever was making Draco look like that. 

“Yeah, well,” Draco laughed lowly, but there was no humor in the sound, “you were right the first time. He’s not happy with anything lately, me included. Even me making Chaser. You should see the things he says in the letters he writes to me—” cutting himself off, Draco breathed in slowly and straightened his shoulders, rebuilding his mask of arrogance. “But of course my father is a great man who merely wants what’s best for me and our family. Everything he does has a reason.”

For the first time, Harry wondered if half of the cutting things Draco said to Harry and the other kids he bullied came from things Mr. Malfoy had said first about Draco. Maybe Draco’s family life wasn’t as happy and perfect as he liked to pretend. Harry looked away before Draco could see the sympathy in his eyes. If Draco thought Harry was pitying him, the truce would be off and Draco’s cruelty would surge back ten times as strong.

Blaise crossed his arms behind his head and rocked on his feet as he looked up at a fluffy white cloud that had shadowed the courtyard. “Well, getting back to my original point, it looks like Harry has a new admirer. First Granger, now Weasley, whose heart will fall to him next?” 

Harry groaned. “Seriously, Blaise, stop.”

“Yes, please stop. The less said about that disgusting know-it-all Granger the better. Does she even have any redeeming qualities?” Theo rolled his eyes.

Draco snorted but for once didn’t offer up an extra insult. Maybe he still had a soft spot for Hermione after going through all those traps together last year. Or, much more likely, he was still feeling a bit off after admitting that his father wasn’t as proud of him as he wanted everyone to believe.

Into the silence broke Greg’s hesitant voice. “Granger likes snakes?” They all turned to look at him in shock, not just for his words but for venturing an independent opinion on something. 

“Are you saying you like her?” Vincent sounded betrayed as red flooded his face. “She’s a Gryffindor and a—a mudblood.” 

Harry blinked, not having heard that term before but not liking the sound of it.

“N—no…” Greg hunched his shoulders and looked down, his voice going quiet. “Just that Harry’s a Slytherin and she likes him, even helped him and Draco and Blaise to get through all those traps last year, and then there was that snake she picked up last year when everyone else was scared… so she seems to like snakes. That’s all.”

“That makes sense.” Draco brushed back his hair, his lips twisted into a smirk. “I’m just glad Goyle wasn't speaking of the other kind of snake because thinking that almost made me throw up in my mouth.”

“What other kind of snake?” Vincent asked, scratching his head. Harry was confused too.

Pursing his lips, Draco leaned forward, looking left and right before whispering, “A trouser snake.”

“Ew, gross!” Blaise jumped back while Theo leaned over and pretended to puke, making loud retching sounds. 

“You’re awful! How dare you plant that image in my head. Scrubbing out my brain now, scrub scrub scrub!” Theo scratched his fingers through his dark hair, making it stick up in all directions.

Draco put his hands on his hips and cackled. Vincent and Greg both still looked uncertain but gave a few confused chuckles.

Not even thinking about it, Harry’s fist snapped out and slugged Draco hard in the arm, making Draco stagger to the side with a yelp. “Don’t talk about her that way. She’s my friend.” He narrowed his eyes at Draco. 

Harry never would’ve dreamed of reacting like that before Hogwarts, but he wasn’t a stupid powerless kid living in a cupboard and getting regularly thrashed by his cousin and his friends anymore. Some boys just listened better after a tap, a lesson he’d learned from watching Flint and the other boys in Slytherin. 

Rubbing his arm, Draco looked sour. “It was just a joke.”

“Look,” Blaise nudged Harry with his elbow, “Granger’s alright for a girl, but she’s always going to be a Gryffindor and Gryffs are the enemy. If you’re that desperate for a girlfriend I’m sure we can find you one in our house. Tracey or Daphne might not be too bad, or maybe someone in Ravenclaw. I’ve got several admirers in Ravenclaw myself.” He smirked at a group of girls on the other side of the courtyard and ran a hand through his hair, making them giggle and blush.

Theo wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “It’s disgusting but true, even some of the older girls like him.” He looked at where Hermione was disappearing into the castle surrounded by redheads, frowned, and turned back at Harry, the corners of his mouth tight. “You really can do better than her, Harry. Blaise could easily push one of the eagles your way. What about—” he snapped his fingers “—Cho Chang. She’s a year older and I hear she likes Quidditch.”

“She could go flying with you in the moonlight.” Blaise looked soulfully up towards the sky with a hand across his brow before breaking the pose to add, “I could totally set up a date. Her roommate likes me. I can tell.” 

Cho was cute but that wasn’t the point. Harry pressed his lips tight and exhaled through his nose. “Seriously, guys, stop. I don’t want a girlfriend right now. I’m only twelve. Most of you don’t even want girlfriends.” 

“That’s true, but when I do decide I want one I know enough to set my heart on a proper girl, one who’s wearing green.” Theo shifted his bag to the other shoulder and sniffed.

“W-e-e-ll… I hear Pansy’s looking for a boyfriend,” Blaise put a finger on his nose and pushed it up in imitation of Pansy’s unfortunately pug-like nose.

Harry snorted and played along. “Are you suggesting Theo steal her away from our good friend Draco? You know she’s loved him since first year.”

“Yuck!” Draco shivered. “Please, take her away. In fact, I’ll ask her to focus on turning Harry’s poor heart from the Gryffindor girls. I’ll say it’s a personal favor to me.” He turned and looked around the courtyard, calling out, “Oh, Pansy!”

“Don’t you dare!” Harry cried, springing at Draco with hands outstretched. Laughing, Draco took off running with Harry hot on his heels. The others followed with shouted suggestions.

-oo0oo-

As they returned to their room to drop off their books, Theo kept giving Harry longer and longer looks, fidgeting and taking a deep breath as if he was about to say something but not actually doing it. 

In the jockeying for position amongst the second-years, Draco and Harry were tied for top spot. Blaise was so likable and easy-going that he slotted into place just below them and seemed content to stay there. Theo wasn’t even in the running for top spot, yet every once in a while he still tried to assert himself by tearing one of them down, often Harry as a softer target than Draco or Blaise. Theo wanted to be a leader in Slytherin but lacked the talent, persistence, and strength of will. Ever since Draco had decided he didn’t hate Harry anymore, Theo had gotten more antsy, as if he’d counted on Draco and Harry taking each other out so he could sneak past them and become the leader without having to work for it and, since it hadn’t happened, he was working himself up to do something else to improve his status.

Dominance was important in their house and something Harry had been forced to pay attention to and try to learn how to navigate. He wasn’t always sure if he wanted to be a leader, especially because there was still so much about the magical world he didn’t understand, but in the sink or swim world of house politics, Harry refused to drown. Most of the time he was only treading water, but he had too much stubborn pride to go under without a fight. Besides, he didn’t have it in him to really be a mindless follower. He hated being ordered around, especially without having a really good reason for what he was doing.

Tossing his bag onto the trunk at the foot of his bed, catching the backup sack of just-in-case rolls and fruit before it could fall to the floor and shoving it back into place, Harry swung around with a sigh and put a hand on his hips. “Whatever you want to say, Theo, just spit it out.” The sooner Theo’s little power push got nipped in the bud, the sooner he’d accept his place and go back to being normal, letting Harry relax.

“Fine,” Theo straightened the cuffs of his robe before looking up with a hard expression and throwing back his shoulders. “I realize you never got a proper education, Harry, but it’s time you started figuring things out. Everyone’s been giving you slack because you’re famous for surviving, but you’re not a first year anymore.”

Barely stopping a flinch at the reference to his so-called fame, hoping he hadn’t let them see the moment of weakness, Harry shifted so he could keep the others in view and surreptitiously fisted the wand in his pocket. This sounded like the kind of conversation that might end up in a fight. Blaise would have his back, but the others could go either way. 

Harry looked at Draco from the corner of his eye, tired of never knowing if he could be trusted. He’d decided to be nice to Harry today, but that could and had changed at a moment’s notice and, as roommates, there was no getting away from him. Harry was stuck with the problem of Draco Malfoy until they graduated. Thinking about giving up on Draco and just becoming clear cut enemies—no matter how much simpler it would make some things—made Harry’s chest hurt, but Harry hadn’t figured out how to make Draco stick as a loyal friend. One of these days he might have to stop trying.

However, right now, he needed to focus on the problem of Theo, not Draco. “What’s that supposed to mean, Theo? What things?” 

“Harry, you shouldn't even like Granger. Let the friendship go. We’re Slytherins and she’s—she’s a _mudblood_ ,” Theo said with a curl of his lip. “Not to mention a Gryffindor. It’s embarrassing the rest of us. It’s a disgrace.”

Harry’s temper sparked. “Wait, what did you call her?” His back straightened at the unfamiliar term that nonetheless left a bad taste in his mouth. 

“Okay, look Harry.” Sighing, Draco drummed his fingers on his thigh from where he sat on the corner of his bed. “Theo’s right in that Slytherin is the best because it’s full of purebloods. Everyone knows that only purebloods can be great. That’s just the way it is. Granger’s parents are Muggles.” His lip curled. “You have to see that it makes her blood dirty—muddy—so she’s less than the rest of us. She’s a mudblood. Even you with all your fame are still only a half-blood, on account of your mum also being a mu—” 

Harry found himself across the room and looming over Draco without knowing quite how it had happened. He didn’t know what his face looked like or what word had been about to come out of Draco’s mouth—Muggle or mudblood—but Draco’s face had gone as pale as his hair and Theo had stumbled back to put his back against the wall. 

Perhaps because Harry could take so much abuse without snapping, his roommates assumed he’d always be good natured and treated the times he actually lost his temper with shock and wary respect. It took a lot to make him lose it, but when he did, it was explosive. Harry hadn’t been allowed to lose his temper when he lived with the Dursley’s without dire and long-lasting consequences, but as a Slytherin, he sometimes found that allowing out a bit of his temper made things better, not worse.

When he’d first started school, Harry had been trying to keep his head down and be friendly and respectful to everyone, but Greg and Vincent had decided that kindness meant he was weak. They’d all gotten into a fight in the owlery a couple of weeks into first year, but Harry had held his own and earned their respect. Things had gotten better after that, but then, just before the winter holidays, they’d cornered him in their room, insulted his dead parents, and tried to beat him up, maybe to prove they weren’t at the bottom of the social hierarchy, maybe because they’d had a bad day, or maybe just because they were dicks. The rest of his roommates had arrived just in time to see Harry standing over their downed bodies, despite Harry being half of Greg’s size, much less Vincent’s—though he’d won more through berserker fury and a stubborn disregard of physical pain than through any true skill at fighting. Nevertheless, the respect stuck that time until the end of the year. It had established him as a dominant in their group and someone you should be careful of pushing too far. Even with his contention with Draco this year, he hadn’t lost his position.

“ _Don’t_ .” Harry’s hands curled into fists. His chest expanded on a deep breath. “Don’t you dare say that filthy word. Not about my friends, not about my _mum_.” Harry shot a hard look at Draco, trying to appeal to the momma’s boy so-obviously living inside him. “Just—don’t.” Harry felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin. He didn’t want to go right back to fighting Draco and the rest of them, but he would. He would fight them over this. 

Reading it clearly on his face, the others exchanged glances and shifted uneasily. A noisy group walked past the door of their room and Harry sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm down enough to think clearly, trying to figure out what to do besides launch a swing at Draco’s face or run away out the door. So far he and Draco had mostly kept their fighting to words. Changing that dynamic was suicidal, though he’d still do it if necessary. Part of him would love to plant a fist in Draco’s mouth for all of the grief he’d been giving Harry this year. 

Clenching his jaw, Harry forced more air into his lungs and tried to think instead of just react. He needed to be diplomatic and get them to see things his way, wasn’t that what the older kids always talked about in the common room? He needed to be cunning like a true Slytherin. Perhaps if he used logic while flattering them into it? Wasn’t that how Dulcina had won that big fight last week with Artemis?

Relaxing his fists, Harry made sure to keep his voice low and controlled. “Look, I don’t want to fight. You’re my friends, my housemates in the greatest house there is. In the years to come we’ll be allies and rise to power together, leaving the wizarding world in awe of us Slytherins. We’re going to be great, but the power of a Slytherin can’t all be so-called blood status. Look at the evidence. If that were true, every so-called pureblood and every powerful wizard and witch in the castle would be in Slytherin and I know that’s not true. Isn’t Professor Flitwick—who I think it’s obvious isn’t a pure blood—better at Charms than anyone, not to mention an award winning duelist?” 

Draco’s face was too hard to read while Vincent and Greg looked like they’d forgotten what the topic was even about. Blaise chewed on his lip and seemed to be thinking about it. Looking stubborn, Theo opened his mouth to keep arguing so Harry turned the focus on him. 

“Isn’t Theo’s older sister in Ravenclaw and Head Girl this year? Didn’t Theo say that she’s some kind of amazing genius already being courted by several different departments at the Ministry and even has international runemasters asking her to come and apprentice?” 

Theo’s face mottled red as he shut his mouth and looked down, obviously unsure how to respond and still win the argument.

“Well, isn’t she powerful, Theo? Or did I remember wrong?” Harry pushed, watching him carefully.

“No, she—she is, that’s true, and in Ravenclaw….” Theo trailed off and gulped. 

Draco opened and closed his mouth as if he wanted to argue but wasn’t sure what to say. 

Harry looked around and saw a Quidditch magazine on Draco’s bed. “And all else being equal, doesn’t everyone say that Oliver Wood is probably the best Quidditch player in the school and certain to go professional once he graduates?” Draco and Theo stiffened. Even Blaise frowned. 

Harry hid a wince. He’d almost had them before he’d mentioned Wood—a Gryffindor and their biggest rival in Quidditch. It had been a tactical mistake. His mind raced. He needed to pivot back to Slytherin being great. 

“Look, we’re Slytherins and together we’re going to show everyone that us snakes are the best. Right? We’re not going to do that by making pitiful excuses about things no one can control like blood status, or rely on reckless luck like a Gryffindor, blind loyalty like a Hufflepuff, or rote memorization like a Ravenclaw.” That had them nodding. Heart pounding, Harry leaned forward as if letting them in on a secret. “We’re going to rise to the top using cunning, resourcefulness, and ambition. That’s why we’re better. That’s our power. Maybe it used to make a difference in the dusty old past, but for people like us, in the future to come, blood status won’t matter. Those are excuses used by old people and those too weak and clumsy to rise to the top. That’s not us. Here and now is what matters. What we do and say matters. This is our time to show them what we’re made of. We’re going to win by being so obviously superior to everyone else that the other houses won’t be able to deny it. Get it?”

Harry focused his gaze on Draco, who looked conflicted but thoughtful. At least he wasn’t arguing with what Harry had said. It was a start. 

“You don’t understand family the way we do,” Theo scowled down at his boots and shuffled his feet. “That's just the way everyone talks. Being pureblood—being seen as the right sort instead of the wrong sort—that’s important. That earns you respect.”

“Really? Is it really earned?” Harry asked sharply. “Or is it merely given and just as easily taken away, leaving you powerless when problems come? True respect is earned based on actions. Actions are remembered and relied upon much more than mere labels. That kind of respect endures and leads to security and power.” Harry held out his hands like a set of scales in Potions. “It’s like a house of straw versus a house of brick. When a troll comes knocking, which one do you want to be living in?”

Harry turned and left the room, trying not to look like he was fleeing, though he totally was. Had he really just used the story of the three little pigs and the big bad wolf to try and convince his roommates? He needed to stop now before he said something even stupider and lost whatever ground he’d just gained, if he had actually gained anything. 

Locking himself in a bathroom stall, Harry sat down, put his head in his hands, and groaned pitifully. It was tempting to hide out in here until everyone forgot what he’d said and were busy stuffing their faces at dinner, but he only had to remember Hermione’s experience last Halloween to know why locking oneself in a bathroom only led to worse problems. If there was another troll in the castle, Harry’s luck would probably draw it straight to him. Digging deep for his courage, Harry stood up, washed his hands, and left.

-oo0oo-

With that conversation weighing on his mind, Harry had actually managed to forget that it was Halloween. Stepping into the Great Hall, which looked like the daughter of a bat and a pumpkin had spit up decorations everywhere, he felt like a Bludger had knocked him in the head. Trudging over to the table, he was surprised and grateful when his roommates shifted to make room for him like always instead of getting weird.

However, just as they finished eating, Harry once again heard that horrible voice of ice and metal. At first it sounded like it was on one side of the hall and merely invisible, but then it moved above his head, like a ghost with no respect for walls and floors, whispering about it finally being the time to kill. Worried that someone was about to die, Harry jumped to his feet and rushed to stop it. Blaise and Draco ran after him, demanding to know what was going on and claiming that they hadn’t heard anything. 

“That voice—don’t you hear it? It’s going to kill somebody!” Harry cried, taking the steps two at a time.

 _“Blood… I smell blood...yes-s-s...”_ the raspy voice whispered eagerly just around the corner at the top of the stairs. Wand out, his most powerful jinx at the ready, Harry pelted around the corner, only to stumble to a stop at the strange scene that met his eyes. Mrs. Norris, Filch’s cat, lay on the floor, her body as stiff as a board. On the wall above the cat were written words in what looked like blood. 

_The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware._

“Not good, run for it!” Draco cried, grabbing a fistfull of Harry’s robes and yanking him back towards the stairs with Blaise. Before they could escape, Filch came hustling around the corner, giving an anguished cry at seeing his cat, just as half of Gryffindor house reached the top of the stairs from the opposite direction, blocking escape and pointing fingers at the three Slytherins. 

The Headmaster and Professor Snape were called to deal with the situation. Despite their vehement denials, Filch and the Gryffindors were certain that the Slytherins had killed the cat and written the bloody words. Harry was extremely glad Draco had followed after him instead of letting him go alone. There was no way Snape would ever let his godson be punished by Filch, especially without concrete proof of wrongdoing. The chance became even more remote when the cat turned out to be merely petrified and not dead. If Harry had been alone, however, Filch might’ve finally gotten his wish to hang someone from the ceiling by their toes, though Dumbledore did seem to have a soft spot for Harry and if he’d been lucky might’ve saved him from torture. 

The whole experience made him reflect bitterly on his own skewed reputation. He really needed to find a way to get more respect and safety. Hopefully winning the Quidditch match next week would help with that.

-oo0oo-

The following day the rumor mill went crazy. Blaise reported hearing that the Chamber of Secrets was created by Salazar Slytherin after an argument with the other founders over teaching muggleborns (Slytherin was against it) and that the Chamber housed a monster that would kill muggleborns and could only be controlled by Slytherin’s heir. Everyone pretty much agreed that the heir had to be a student in Slytherin, but no one was quite sure who. To Harry’s dismay, he was the favored candidate, especially after someone resurrected the rumors from last year about how Harry must secretly be the next Dark Lord because he’d somehow killed Voldemort as a baby and then been sorted into Slytherin. 

He wondered what Hermione thought and if she still believed in him, but there was no way to know because she was proving to be more elusive than ever. At least she’d have to be at his first game, didn’t she? Surely she’d find a way to talk to him then, after if not before. 

Anxious about competing and uncomfortable with both the whispered rumors and the whispers in the walls, Harry fell into a dark mood that proved difficult to shake as he counted down the final days before his first Quidditch game. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my extremely helpful betas — Iforgottocall and dizzysappedweak! And thank you for reading! Next time is the much anticipated Quidditch game and the answer to what Hermione’s been up to while Harry’s been busy. Please comment and let me know what you think of my story, what Hermione’s going to do next chapter, and my Slytherin characters. Thank you! And there are character pics of models cast as Hermione, Valeria, and Flint on my tumblr Indygodusk.


	4. Second Year - The Quidditch Game

As luck would have it—bad luck, that is—the day of the Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch game matched the mood of Harry’s previous week perfectly. Rain drizzled constantly from the grey sky, making his hair drip, Quidditch robes cling, and broom handle slippery. The few sports charms he’d learned helped, but not nearly enough. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the autumn wind whistling down from the Scottish Highlands sent icy fingers sliding up his cuffs and down his collar until his bones ached with it. Harry didn’t know if there just weren’t any magical spells to make playing in weather like this more comfortable or if wizards just thought it a point of pride to be slightly miserable while playing Quidditch. The older boys just laughed when he asked. At least the Gryffindor team had to be just as uncomfortable.

Slytherin had the advantage in brooms with the whole team being mounted on the cutting edge Nimbus 2001s Mr. Malfoy had gifted to the team, though Harry had to wonder if the broom meant for the Seeker might’ve gotten lost in shipping if Mr. Malfoy had known in advance that the broom would end up in the hands of Harry Potter—the boy he didn’t want his son to be friends with. Most of the Gryffindor team seemed to be flying Cleansweep Fives with the exception of Oliver Wood on one of the newer Nimbus 2000s, though that still wasn't as good of a broom as the Nimbus 2001. Even with the broom advantage, Harry couldn’t help but feel nervous, though he was excited too. In his first game he felt a burning need to prove himself.

As it began to rain harder, Harry found himself practically blind. His glasses made it harder instead of easier to see. Realizing he’d forgotten to charm them and feeling like an idiot, he quickly took them off his face and cast an anti-fogging charm along with a water repellant charm before putting them back on and casting the strongest sticking charm he knew. Silently he thanked Hermione for researching and teaching him the spells. 

He looked for her in the stands, knowing there was probably no way she’d be sitting on the Slytherin side, much less wearing a bit of green to show support for Harry in his first official game, not when he was competing against Gryffindor, but still secretly hoping he was wrong. At the very least he wanted to exchange a smile. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see her wild curls anywhere. His stomach soured and his nerves rose even higher. However, he didn’t have time for nerves. 

Once the game started, Harry shoved everything down and gave himself over to the rush of competition. There was nothing quite like the thrill and freedom of flying. As the two Seekers took up position high above the stands and circled for the Snitch, Harry found the other boy to be much more conservative in his flying and search patterns, despite being older. Gryffindor’s Seeker was a fifth or sixth year with dark blond hair and heavily freckled cheeks. Harry had been distracted looking for Hermione while the Gryffindor team was announced and couldn’t exactly remember his name. He didn’t bother trying too hard as he needed all of his focus for searching. The other boy hadn’t been on the team last year, at least he knew that. The rain lightened to a thin drizzle, making it easier to distinguish the flutter of a Snitch’s wings from the reflection of flapping Quidditch robes in the puddles down below.

Flint was taking no chances with losing this year and had his team flying in brutal formations. Gryffindor was used to brutality when it came to Slytherin, but what they’d forgotten to guard against was the combination of brutality and cunning. Flint and Terence worked together seamlessly in the sky, almost seeming to read each other’s minds as they passed the Quaffle back and forth in the complicated maneuvers that Terence had pushed for this year after his move from Seeker to Chaser. 

Despite being the youngest and smallest Chaser on the field, Draco didn’t hold his team back. Flint had adapted their team plays away from the maneuvers he’d favored with Pucey to better fit with Draco’s strengths. Although the weakest flyer on the team, Draco had no scruples when it came to running borderline illegal plays that risked injuring other players. He was also loud mouthed, adept with his insults, and flashy, successfully distracting the Gryffindor team at several critical moments to allow Flint and Terance to race past and score a goal. The Weasley twins got so red at one point Harry could practically see the rain steaming off their skin. Harry was grateful Draco was on his side because he’d probably lose his temper just as easily as the Gryffindors did. 

Not to be outdone by the Slytherin Chasers, Beaters Artemis and Dulcina made it their mission to be more miserable and distracting than the stormy weather. They sent Bludgers zooming hard at the Gryffindor players, making them frantically swerve to try and avoid injury and creating openings in their defense (though Harry found himself constantly bombarded by Bludgers too, which was a lot less brilliant). The Slytherin Beaters cut in front of Gryffindor players and sandwiched flyers between their brooms in ways that could be excused as accidental but which quickly racked up injuries for their opponents and points for their own team. 

Harry sent his own broom weaving unexpectedly through the Gryffindor line, keeping them off balance and almost causing several accidents as they swerved to avoid him or found their brooms knocked into unexpected spirals. Gryffindor pushed back with their own dirty tricks, especially the Weasley twins, who could be absolutely wretched. A couple of fouls were called by the referee against both sides, but much fewer than actually deserved and nothing that got a player kicked out of the game. 

Slytherin dominated the field and racked up the points, which just made the Gryffindors more frustrated and sloppy. It looked like they’d really needed those extra practices Flint had denied them by using Professor Snape to book the Quidditch pitch so often in the weeks leading up to the game, especially their novice Seeker (named Skipper as Harry finally learned from the announcer ten minutes into the game).

Maybe if the weather had been better or if Skipper had been playing against a different house for his first game, maybe then it would’ve been different for Gryffindor, but after almost getting knocked off his broom twice in the first ten minutes and then almost slamming into the ground following Harry’s dive when the Snitch appeared for a brief second before disappearing again, Skipper completely lost his nerve. Gryffindor’s Seeker spent more time wringing out his robes and watching Harry than looking for the Snitch himself and kept falling for Harry’s fake outs, not to mention that he jerked away blindly everytime the Bludger came near (which happened every time he got close to Harry) and kept getting in the way of his own team, inadvertently helping the Slytherins score. As the game went on and he racked up more mistakes, Skipper just got worse and worse. It was almost painful to watch, even as a member of the opposing team. Gryffindor probably would’ve played better without a Seeker on the field at all. If that had been Harry, he’d have worried about getting beaten up by his teammates in the locker room after the game and then having his body tossed in the Forbidden Forest to be eaten.

The scoreboard reached Slytherin 130 to Gryffindor at a big fat 0. 

Even with Skipper’s incompetence, it was a tough game. Hours had passed. Almost everyone was exhausted and sporting cuts and bruises. In Gryffindor, Chaser Alicia Spinnet was flying with a grossly swollen knee, Chaser Katie Bell had a twisted wrist, Beaters Fred and George Weasley sported a split lip and a bloody ear between them, and Keeper Oliver Wood’s left eye had swollen shut completely with his right eye more angry pink than healthy white. 

Not that Slytherin had gotten by unscathed. Flint’s forehead and scalp were covered in mottled bruises and thin red scratches after getting whacked overhead by the bristles of Wood’s broom. Miles had several crooked and swollen fingers on his left hand, Artemis and Dulcina had matching lumps on their jaws, and Draco’s normally immaculate white-blond hair had become plastered down the sides of his face like a dirty grey headkerchief. To no one’s surprise, Draco complained the loudest out of everyone on the pitch.

Harry got more and more frustrated as the game dragged on. He wanted Slytherin to win and Gryffindor to lose, but he rather wished the Beaters were a bit less enthusiastic with the Bludgers. It felt like everyone was targeting him instead of each other. He hadn’t caught sight of the Snitch since the start of the game because he’d been too busy flying in crazy loops and zigzags to avoid getting hit by the constant bombardment from both teams. If he hadn’t gone through Valeria’s training he’d probably have puked, passed out, or broken a bone by now.

He tried to turn the situation to his advantage. The next time the Bludger zipped his way, he dived down right into the path of Chaser Angelina Johnson. The Bludger glanced off her shoulder, making her drop the Quaffle. Draco scooped it up and zipped forward, sending it soaring through the hoop on Wood’s blind left side and bringing the score up to 140, though the fact that Wood still almost blocked it was a testament to his skill. 

Several minutes later Harry repeated the same maneuver. Johnson dodged the Bludger this time, but her shoulder injury had weakened her goal throw enough that Miles was able to intercept it and toss it behind his back to Terence, who zoomed forward. Dulcina’s bat slammed the other Bludger straight down the Gryffindor line, making them scatter, while Flint barrelled through, bashing both Bell and a Weasley to the side in wobbly rolls that cleared a path for Terence to shoot through and toss the Quaffle through the goal hoop. 

The boos and groans from Gryffindor were drowned out by the screaming cheers of Slytherin as the scoreboard ticked up to 150-0 for Slytherin. Skipper must’ve realized that if he didn’t catch the Snitch before Slytherin made another goal it would no longer matter if he caught it at all. When the whistle blew again Skipper flew right up on Harry’s tail and refused to be shaken off, much like that stupid Bludger still trying to kill him. 

However, the only way Harry was letting Skipper get the Snitch first was over his dead body. Finally catching a flutter out of the corner of his eye, Harry dived, the other Seeker bolting after him in hot pursuit. When Harry realized a second later that the fluttering he’d seen wasn’t the wings of the Snitch but just an oversized feathered headdress on a pale-haired Ravenclaw girl in the stands, he pulled up sharply in frustration. 

Before he could catch his breath, he saw a Bludger whistling straight for his face. Crying out, Harry sloth-rolled under his broom and dived, skimming over the heads of the spectators and knocking off someone’s hat with his head before he managed to pull up again, forehead stinging and heart racing. Skipper was too close on Harry’s heels and too poor of a flyer to do the same. The Bludger glanced off the tip of Skipper’s broom and sent him sideways into one of the sopping wet flags above the stands, tangling him in the cloth and spinning him around the pole until he slammed into it face-first with a loud crunch that made Harry flinch in horrified sympathy.

Obviously fed up, Wood tucked the Quaffle he’d just caught under one arm and called a time out. Skipper was freed from the flag by Madame Hooch and floated down to Madame Pomfrey while the rest of his team gathered around dolefully. Thankfully the crunch seemed to have come from a broken broomstick, not a broken neck, but Skipper was obviously injured as blood poured down his face. Once they figured out that he wasn’t dead, the rest of the Gryffindor team gathered in another area, seemingly more grateful for a breather than concerned about their teammate. 

The Slytherin team gathered by their goal hoops. The rain chose that moment to pause for the first time since the game started. It could be a good omen but Harry was too frustrated for optimism. He saw his future fate in the body of the battered and bloody Seeker and spoke up before anyone else could. “Look guys, I’m not saying you aren’t playing great, but could you please stop knocking the Bludger straight at me every sodding second?! We’re on the same team, remember?”

The Beaters exchanged a quick look before Dulcina spoke. “That’s not us, Harry. Promise. Something’s wrong with one of the Bludgers. One of the Gryffs must’ve charmed it to chase you around. We’ve been trying to keep it off you, but no matter how hard I crack it or how good my aim, one of the Bludgers always goes straight back at you.”

Artemis nodded. “It’s true. I saw it make a ninety degree turn and go straight up to try to knock out your teeth as you flew past. Bludgers don’t move like that, or at least they shouldn’t without outside help.”

“Those cheats!” Draco snarled, punching a hand into his fist.

Huffing mirthlessly, Harry sluiced his dripping hair back off his brow, too tired to care that it probably made his scar more prominent. “To be fair, we probably cheated a whole lot more first.”

“But!” Miles pointed a finger in the air using his uninjured hand, “Madam Hooch has the equipment warded with the same anti-cheating spells used by the International Quidditch League. No student, nor even most adults, should be able to get around wards like that. It’s probably why everyone’s ignoring it. It shouldn’t be true so they won’t believe it’s true. Adults are often stupid like that.”

Flint crossed his arms and nodded. “Generations of Slytherins have tried and failed. I wonder how they did it?” he grumbled, glancing across the field at a flurry of movement around the downed Seeker, who was weaving on his feet as blood covered his mouth and chin and trying to mount back up on his broom without much success. Madam Pomfrey was angrily berating him. “Skipper’s not coming back up,” Flint said.

“Luckily for Gryffindor,” Draco sneered. 

Terence chuckled. “I swear I saw the Weasley twins aim Bludgers at his back at least twice, trying to bring him down themselves.” He craned his neck to see into the shadowed archway leading to Gryffindor’s locker room. “They’ll probably send out their reserve Seeker. I heard they found someone this year, though I wasn’t able to get any names. Whomever it is will be fresh and probably loads better than that loser Skipper.”

“Hard not to be. You up to it Harry?” Miles asked.

“Of course,” Harry said staunchly, pushing back his shoulders and trying not to look as tired as he felt.

Obviously he failed as Artemis looked him over and pursed her lips. “Harry looks exhausted.” She wrung water out of her dark braid. “Not that I completely blame him with that cursed Bludger nipping at his heels the whole time and him with no bat.” 

Flint looked over at Harry, eyes hard. “We’re all tired, but I need you to catch that Snitch for us, Harry. How do you want to play this? You want a Beater on your tail to help you out?”

Frowning, Harry shook his head. “No, that’ll weaken our defence too much. I don’t want us losing our lead and, no offense, but both Artemis and Dulcina have trouble keeping up with me.” The Beaters looked at each other and shrugged agreeably. Everyone on the team thought Harry was a bit insane with his flying, though they couldn’t agree if it was due to Valeria’s training breaking him mentally or Harry’s unfortunate Gryffindor ancestry. “I’ll just have to fly too fast for the Bludger and catch that Snitch as soon as it makes another appearance.” Harry shook out his wrists and rolled his shoulders and neck, trying to work out the tension. “I can do it.”

“Okay.” Flint sent him a nod, believing in him. It filled Harry with much needed warmth.

Hooch blew her whistle to signal an announcement. Madam Pomfrey had Skipper laying on a stretcher with a cloth pressed against his bloody nose and his feet elevated. Floating the stretcher up, she disappeared with him into the medical tent.

Announcer Lee Jordan’s voice filled the stadium, “With Skipper too injured to continue, Gryffindor has decided to substitute in another player. Please put your hands together for Gryffindor’s reserve Seeker...  _ Hermione Granger _ !”

Harry froze in midair, shocked and disbelieving as out of the Gryffindor tunnel zipped a familiar head of bushy brown curls. “Wha...?” He blinked and pinched himself, but nothing changed.

“Is this a joke?” Draco cut in front of Harry’s broom with a glare. “Why didn’t you tell us she was on their team?”

“I—I didn’t know,” Harry said hollowly. Was this why she’d been avoiding him lately? Trying to keep her new status secret? His chest hurt.

Artemis looked Hermione over and wrinkled her nose. “She doesn’t look like much. Is she as good as Harry?” 

Clenching his teeth, Harry adjusted the fit of his gloves. “No. I’m better.”

“She doesn’t change anything. Stay focused, keep up the good work, and go win this,” Flint said, sending them forward.

Everyone resumed their positions on the field. Harry refused to look at Hermione, instead keeping his gaze roaming for the Snitch and the approach of that rogue Bludger despite play not starting yet. For some reason, he was having trouble catching his breath.

As he circled near the Gryffindor line, one of the Weasley twins looked up and caught his eye, immediately straightening on his broom. “Ha! Bet you didn’t expect her, did you Potter?” He smirked widely, making the split on his lip start bleeding down his chin again. He lifted bruised knuckles to his face and dabbed at his mouth with a grimace, shoulders starting to droop before he remembered himself and straightened them again as he returned his attention to Harry, plastering a confident look on his face. “Right George?”

George Weasley stopped picking at the scab on his ear to lean back on his broom and give an over-exaggerated laugh, pointing up at Harry. “And she told us all his secrets too!” He turned to his brother but kept watching Harry from the corner of his eye as he spoke. “Potter’s so pitiful, Fred. It’s sad. Can you believe it? The freak didn’t even notice it was all an act? After all, why else would she ever hang out with a Slytherin? Why would anyone unless they wanted something?” 

“Which she got,” called Fred with a snigger. He swung his bat through the air and laughed loudly in concert with his brother.

It was so over the top that Harry knew they were just trying to get inside his head. Nevertheless, it was working. Teeth clenching, he looked away, feeling hot and itchy beneath the skin as he tried to catch his breath. He wanted it to be a lie but there was too much that made sense. And how did they know to call him a freak, just like the Dursleys? Somehow he must’ve slipped at some point and accidentally mentioned it to Hermione, not realizing it. What else had he said in secret that she’d laughed about behind his back with her housemates? Each inhale burned like an ember scraping down his throat. He felt devastated, like something had broken inside and he was bleeding out. 

The whistle blew to restart play, releasing the Bludgers and Quaffle and restarting the Snitch from wherever it had been hiding. Feeling like he was about to shatter, Harry jerked his broom away from the Gryffindor line and circled the pitch in a standard search pattern. He didn’t have the focus to get creative.

“Harry,” Hermione called out from behind him. Her voice sounded sincere and pleading, but obviously he didn’t know how to tell her truth from her lies. He had no interest in listening to whatever she had to say right now. Obviously he couldn’t trust it. Couldn’t trust  _ her _ . Using the excuse of the rapidly approaching Bludger, he spun away in the opposite direction. 

The rain started up again, drizzling off his hair and down his neck to slide past his collar and over his back in icy rivulets that he welcomed for the first time, hoping it would cool the humiliation burning in his veins. He made another sharp turn and rolled to get away from the hexed Bludger. He was so done with this game. He just wanted to catch the Snitch and leave, go find somewhere small and dark to curl up in and be alone.

Looping away as the Bludger returned, Harry found himself unexpectedly facing Hermione. Rising up to get farther from the Bludger, he jerked his face away to avoid seeing the mocking look probably lurking in her eyes and found himself staring at the Snitch. It fluttered just behind her shoulder. His stomach lurched, praying she hadn’t noticed it yet. 

Doing his best not to react, Harry held position as his mind raced. He had to figure out how to get it without letting her know it was there. No way was he letting Hermione of all people catch the Snitch, not after the way she’d tricked and betrayed him. 

Unfortunately in his distraction, he hesitated in one place too long. Harry only had a split second to notice the Bludger whistling towards him before it slammed into his arm with a * _ CRACK*  _ he both felt and heard. Pain reverberated through his entire body. Harry cried out in shock and agony as he fell across the handle of his broom, almost falling off. The pain throbbed sharp and unrelenting. He knew his arm had to be broken. It hurt too much to be otherwise, not to mention the unnatural shape it made inside his sleeve when he forced his watery eyes to open and look down at it. He tried to move his arm and instantly regretted it as the pain spiked and his vision tunneled. 

Sucking in whimpering breaths through his clenched teeth, Harry closed his eyes again and pressed his cheek to his rain-slicked broom handle, fighting to stay conscious. The arm of his glasses cut into his face, but it was a small pain compared to the white hot throbbing in his arm. Hoping the pain wouldn’t feel so overwhelming if he had something else to focus on, he forced his eyes to open and saw it. 

Miraculously, the Snitch was still there. Harry blinked furiously to clear the tears from his eyes. Hermione hadn’t noticed and was flying away from the Snitch and up towards where Harry lay folded over his broom. This was his chance. 

Ignoring the pain as best he could, numbing his thoughts, Harry gritted his teeth, pushed himself upright, and focused everything he had on the Snitch. He had to catch it before Hermione. He had to show everyone that he wasn’t a freak and earn their respect. He had to win. From the corner of his eye he saw the Bludger rapidly approaching him again, but Harry planned to be gone by the time it got here. He tipped his broom down almost vertically and dived, pushing the speed, knowing he was a better flyer with a better broom, knowing he had to prove that he was a better Seeker than Hermione—who had tricked him and laughed at him behind his back with the other Gryffindors. 

Hermione’s eyes went wide as Harry flew straight at her, but Harry wasn’t focused on her face. He didn’t want to see her face. He only had eyes for the Snitch. Seeing the direction of his gaze, she looked over her shoulder and saw the Snitch. Her broom jerking sideways in the air as she started to turn. The Snitch abruptly zipped over Hermione's flapping curls and up towards Harry. She yelped and, quick as a snake, corrected course and took off after it. 

Harry was now closer to the Snitch than Hermione, though not for long. Hermione would be here in a second and she had two good arms, not just one. Harry had to hurry. 

Letting go of his broom, pushing it to go as fast as possible and stay stable, Harry stretched out his good hand, fingers trembling with the strain… but the fluttering Snitch stayed just out of reach. His fingertips grazed the Snitch’s rain-slick golden body... almost closing around a wingtip once, twice—so close—but then he saw Hermione in the corner of his eye and his eyes flicked over to her her rain-soaked curls for a split second—those cursed curls—just long enough that the Snitch escaped and swerved into a downward spiral. Harry’s eyes snapped back to it as he followed, leaning forward and lunging to the side to try and grab it, forgetting that he was only holding onto the broom with his knees. 

Without warning, gravity ripped his broom away from his body. Harry instinctively reached back to catch himself with his broken arm and screamed when his forearm banged against the handle, sending the broom spinning away and filling his body with excruciating pain that blotted out everything else. 

Harry fell through the air.

Something slammed into him, driving the air from his lungs and cutting off his scream. Warm arms closed tightly around his body, covering his head and bracing his arm just before they slammed into the ground and rolled off the broom together, skidding across the muddy grass until friction tore them apart. Harry slid to a stop, robes soaked and tangled around his body.

Fighting not to black out against the agony or puke at the pain, Harry wrenched open his eyes and fought for air. His vision was filled with a patchwork of dark spots and dark clouds dimly seen through his mud-splattered spectacles. He couldn’t hear anything through the roaring in his ears. As his body finally started to listen and inhaled a sweet lungful of air, the charms he’d cast at the start of the game kicked in and forced the mud to ooze off his lenses. It plopped onto his cheeks and slid down his face in gritty trails. 

Hermione’s face appeared overhead, blocking out the grey sky with tear-bright eyes, bloody lips, and white cheeks coated in streaks of brown mud and flecks of yellowed grass. Her red lips moved as her hands cupped his cheeks, infusing him with life and warmth. He couldn't hear her at first but slowly the sound started coming back as if she was melting away the ice numbing his ears. “—arry! Are you alright? Please be okay. Please, Harry!” Tears dripped off her cheeks onto his face in hot little splashes. He could hear the roaring crowd.

Harry opened his mouth, trying to gather his thoughts enough to say something to get her to stop crying, only to lose them again when he saw the matted mass of her curls rising up around her head like the flaring hood of a cobra.

“Ouch!” Rearing back, Hermione stuck a hand into her floating hair and yanked it back out with a wince. In her hand rested the golden Snitch. Its wings fluttered weakly against a cage of entangling brown strands ripped from her head. “I caught it?” Eyes wide, she looked at Harry and then up at Professor McGonagall high above in the announcer box. A grin split her face. She lifted her hand into the air and waved it wildly. “I caught it!”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “No,” he breathed shakily, feeling sick. 

“What’s that in her hand?” Lee Jordan’s magically amplified voice boomed across the pitch. “I don’t believe it! Granger caught both Potter and the Snitch! Game over! Gryffindor and Slytherin are tied 150 to 150! Game over and Granger saves the day with a tie!” Over the renewed shouts, cheers, and screams, Jordan added, “I guess Skipper might not get killed today after all.”

Skipper might not be killed, but Harry wasn’t so sure about himself. Maybe it would be better to just roll over face-first into the mud puddle soaking through the back of his hair and robes and drown.

“Inappropriate, Mr. Jordan,” Professor McGonagall snapped before adding in a completely different tone, “but well done Miss Granger and Gryffindor!”

“It’s a tie, not a win,” Professor Snape growled loud enough for the mic to pick up and Harry knew that even if his peers somehow miraculously didn’t kill him, Snape would happily correct the oversight.

Blinking rapidly against the sting in his eyes but unwilling to give them the satisfaction of seeing him so obviously defeated, Harry pressed his lips tight and pushed himself up with his good arm until he was sitting instead of laying pitifully flat on his back. The world spun and his vision tunneled again. 

Maybe he’d already passed out and Hermione catching the Snitch was just a hallucination? But if today had proved nothing else, Harry knew that he really wasn’t that lucky. His broken arm hung from his shoulder like a dead weight, dead to everything except pain. He hurt too much for this to be a dream. Nausea flexed its claws and tore through his stomach. He swallowed hard, acid burning his throat. Experience had taught him that throwing up with a broken bone just made everything hurt worse. He swallowed again.

Hermione turned back to look at him, smiling proudly with teardrops still trembling on her lashes. “I caught it, Harry!”

“With your  _ hair _ ,” he snapped, sounding like he was gargling gravel. Harry glared until her smile faltered and her eyes dropped from his face to his arm. 

Lower lip trembling, nose red, she wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks to wipe away her tears. “I—I’m glad you’re okay. That looks really painful.”

“It is,” he said curtly.

Hermione flinched. “Harry…?” 

She reached out to touch him but he slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me! You—you—” he barely swallowed back the cauldron full of spiteful words hissing like acid in his throat, wanting to splash out and burn away her happiness until she felt as miserable as he did. Words like traitor and troll or, even worse, the forbidden  _ Mudblood _ . He knew that one would sting, would probably even make her run away crying, but even with how bitter he felt he couldn’t bring himself to use something so awful and so untrue.

Before she could react, Professor Lockhart appeared and abruptly yanked Harry to his feet. “That was a nasty fall, Harry my boy. Let’s take a look at you.” 

Not expecting to be standing so quickly, Harry swayed and swallowed hard. He tried to breathe shallowly to avoid passing out as spots once more dominated his vision. 

“Broke your arm, did you? I’m well-known for my healing prowess. I’ll have that fixed up in a shake of a hippogriff’s tail.” Even with spotty vision Harry could see the bright glint of Lockhart smiling towards the stands and tossing back his gleaming hair. The sunlit look was even more obviously a glamour than usual considering the sun hadn’t come out from behind the dark clouds once all day. Lockhart turned to Harry with his wand raised. “Now just hold still, Harry.”

Harry took a step back. “No, please don’t! It’s fine! Madam Pomfrey is comin—” he turned to get away but was too slow. Ignoring his objections, Lockhart swished his wand and cast a spell. 

Harry’s arm flopped forward grotesquely, the bones seemingly gone. He touched his arm and it squished beneath his fingers, making Harry feel even more queasy. He lifted it and it bent in several places where arms were never meant to bend.

“What did you do?!” Hermione shrieked, grabbing at her hair. 

In the stands, the crowd got louder. They were probably pointing and laughing at Harry’s predicament.

“Ah well, yes, sometimes... that… happens.” And with a fake smile, Lockhart stepped back, twirled his cape, and disappeared into the crowd just as Madam Pomfrey and several other Professors finally reached them. 

-oo0oo-

At some point Hermione disappeared off with her new friends and Harry ended up in the hospital wing, where he spent the rest of the day drinking regular doses of a putrid potion called Skele-Gro to regrow the bones of his arm. From the way the vein throbbed in Madam Pomfrey’s temple and the fixed smile on her face, he could tell that she was almost as irritated by Lockhart’s intervention as Harry was. Several people tried to visit him, including Hermione, but he turned them all away, not wanting to hear her lies or their recriminations on top of his own.

Harry’s sleep was fitful as his bones regrew. In the middle of the night, he woke to a strange sensation. His brow was being sponged by none other than Dobby, the strange house elf from the summer. The emotional elf spewed apologies while hitting himself over the head and pinching his large floppy ears, in the process revealing that he was the one responsible for both the closed gateway at King’s Cross Station and the rogue Bludger during the game. Before the exhausted Harry could get revenge, Dobby revealed that he’d only been trying to protect Harry from the Chamber of Secrets, which was real and had been opened before, allowing terrible things to happen.

“Dobby knows Harry Potter is a great wizard. Sir made Britain a better place for House Elves. Dobby is sorry, but better a grievous injury that sends Sir home than a hideous death.” Big fat tears dripped pitifully from Dobby’s bulbous eyes.

Harry really would prefer to avoid an even more grievous injury, thanks, but he could tell that Dobby sincerely meant well even if he was a bit crazy. 

When Dobby started punishing himself again for being a bad elf, banging his head against the wall and side table loudly, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. “It’s alright, Dobby, I understand that you were trying to help me, even if I  _ don’t  _ want that kind of help going forward. I forgive you. Please stop hurting yourself. You’re a good house elf.” 

Wringing his hands, Dobby sobbed and wailed even louder. “Dobby is not worthy of the great goodness of Harry Potter!” And with that, the elf popped away before Harry could ask him any more questions. 

Mind racing, Harry tossed and turned for over an hour before finally falling asleep, only to be woken up again when he heard Madam Pomfrey and several professors bringing in another patient. Harry felt chilled even beneath the thick hospital blanket on hearing that another student had been petrified. 

The victim, Colin Creevey, was the annoying first year Gryffindor with the camera who kept bothering Harry for pictures and autographs and insisted on interrupting Harry all of the time to merely ask, “All right, Harry?” and then giggling or looking awed at Harry’s response, which was usually just a terse, “Yeah.” His friends always teased him when that happened and Merlin forbid Snape see Harry being treated like a celebrity by the kid—by a  _ Gryffindor _ —because that just made him act even more sour, as if it wasn’t obvious that Harry hated it himself.

By the time Harry was released the next day with a fully healed arm, everyone had heard about Creevey being petrified and the gossip bounced between the outcome of the Quidditch game to who was the heir of Slytherin and how to keep yourself safe. Within hours, a busy trade in protective amulets and talismans had sprung up. Unfortunately, someone remembered Harry’s irritation with Creevey’s behavior, put it together with his hatred of Mrs. Norris (though really, everyone hated that cat but Filch) and his anger over losing the Snitch, and decided that made Harry, who’d survived the last Dark Lord under mysterious circumstances, the most likely person to be attacking Gryffindors as the heir of Slytherin.

On his way to the Slytherin dungeons from the hospital wing, Harry was jinxed three times, though luckily they were all minor. Not knowing any of the counter spells and being alone against a group of bullies each time, he’d had to run away to get them to break eye contact so the spells would end. Trying to run while your legs were dancing wildly was not easy, nor was running with honey drizzling out your nose and making the floor slippery. He was just lucky that none of his attackers knew more serious spells. 

He could only imagine what awful state his body would be in if he’d been stupid enough to eat anything from that box of treats he’d been offered by that group of earnest first year Hufflepuffs, especially after one of them mentioned getting it from the Weasley twins with orders to share it with poor injured Harry Potter. 

Of course, just when he thought he was finally safe on reaching the familiar dank corridors in the dungeons, he was ambushed by Pucey, Bole, and Derrick. If Harry hadn’t been so paranoid after the other attacks he would’ve fallen right into their trap. Seeing the hems of their robes peeking out from behind a statue, he jerked to a stop, eyes darting wildly. Too impatient to keep waiting, they jumped out of hiding. “There’s Potter. Get him!” 

Harry pivoted on his toes and pelted around the corner, the sound of their drumming feet hot on his heels. They probably would’ve broken his arm all over again or turned his tongue into a large snake if Peeves hadn’t flown by cackling, followed by a group of shrieking students covered in pungent purple liquid and being chased by a flock of pink moths. In all the commotion Harry managed to escape and double back to the door of the Slytherin common room. 

Expecting to be greeted by a lynch mob after all of that, Harry found himself pleasantly surprised. Instead of everyone immediately ganging up to roast his body in the flaming hearth, he was merely met with sneers, scowls, and insults from half of his house. The other half being made up of various factions: some who thought him unworthy of their attention, others who didn’t notice or care about anything unless it directly affected their schemes, those who decided to stay neutral and gather more information, and a very small but special number of friends and allies who supported him. 

Then of course there was Draco, who arrogantly acted like he got to be the special exception to everything and flit from faction to faction and mood to mood according to his whims. Over the course of that first day, Draco acted mad at Harry and spewed cutting insults until he got bored of Harry’s lack of reaction, then switched to acting like Harry’s friend again and demanding entertainment, telling other people to shut up when they repeated the same insults Draco had been spewing only an hour before. This irritating pattern kept up over the following weeks. Draco mocked Harry during meals, classes, and training, but wouldn’t put up with anyone else doing the same (unless it was his father, who had scathing things to say about Harry every time Draco made the mistake of mentioning Harry in a letter home). Harry didn’t know why Mr. Malfoy hated him (though it was probably a former Death Eater thing) or why Draco had decided to not hate Harry and chose instead to be a crappy and inconsistent friend. 

At first Harry suspected that it was some sort of complicated plot on Draco’s part, but then Draco tried to confront Bole and Derrick for lying about Harry in what could only be termed an act best suited to a Gryffindor and that theory fell apart. In the common room, Bole and Derrick were loudly gossiping about how Harry was actually a spy for the muggles and had purposely lost the Snitch to kiss up to his mudblood girlfriend. Harry, studying nearby in a chair with his head down, set his jaw and did his best to ignore them. It wasn’t even the craziest of the rumors they’d started, but somehow it made Draco feel the need to go up to them right away and defend Harry’s honor like he was some kind of dark knight and Harry a damsel in distress. 

With Greg and Vincent being distracted on the far side of the room, Draco strutted up to the two older boys all alone and boldly demanded they stop cashing in on lies everyone knew their families were too poor to pay for. In response, Bole and Derrick stood up, stole Draco’s wand, jinxed Greg and Vincent when they tried to run over to protect Draco, and started rearranging Draco’s face into a fruit bowl. Before Harry could join in, the fight was broken up by Artemis and Dulcina, who luckily knew the counter-jinxes to restore Draco’s appearance without making him go up to the hospital wing to get his nose to stop looking like a pear, his cheeks like apples, and his eyebrows like bananas. 

When the bewildered Harry followed Draco back to their room to say thanks, Draco just gave a jerky nod and grumbled, “Of course. I’m not going to let people say things like that about my friends, though I’m going to get back at Bole and Derrick for this, you’ll see.”

Needless to say, Harry didn’t get Draco at all.

-oo0oo-

When Harry finally got up the courage to approach Valeria the next day, she surprisingly enough didn’t kill or hex him. What she did was in some ways worse. Closing the book in her lap, she slid it into her bag and stood up, staring straight into his eyes. “You disappointed me, Harry.”

Feeling slapped, Harry tried to explain. “It wasn’t my fault. The Bludger was hexed to specifically chase me and—”

The corners of Valeria’s mouth twisted down as she cut a hand through the air. “And nothing. Here’s a life lesson: someone’s always cheating. Always. Usually us, sometimes them. That’s a distraction and an excuse. Here’s a better question for you—how did you react?” 

She gave him only a beat of silence to think before continuing. “I’ll tell you. You were doing fine, adapting your flying and search patterns to make up for it until that Granger girl came out of the tunnel. It rattled you. Even down in the stands we could see that. Whatever the Weasley Beaters said next shook you worse. You let everyone see that too. You let them get into your head,” she tapped his forehead with a sharp nail, “and that’s why you lost—not the Bludger, not your broken arm, and not Granger. You’d already left the game before that Bludger even hit or the Snitch was caught. If you’d  _ kept your focus _ like I trained you to, you’d have caught the Snitch and Slytherin  _ would. have. won _ .” She punctuated each word with a poke in the chest, hard enough to leave bruises.

Feeling like he was bleeding from a thousand cuts, Harry swallowed to bring moisture to his dry mouth and struggled to produce words. He had more excuses and justifications—especially since Hermione had only caught the Snitch by accident in her hair and not even on purpose—but he swallowed them down despite the action feeling like he swallowed shards of glass, knowing Valeria didn’t want to hear them and would start jinxing him if he tried. As angry as he was at Hermione, a part of him knew that what Valeria had said was true. He had become rattled, letting the Weasley twins’ words take root in his heart and distract him. He had wanted the game over and done so he could retreat to privately lick his wounds.

At that moment, Flint came strolling into the room. Valeria turned away from Harry dismissively and moved to join him. Looking past her to Harry, Flint’s expression went tight. 

Lungs tight and stomach burning, Harry turned both of them. There was only one thing he could say that they might accept. “I’m sorry.” 

Wrapping herself around Flint’s arm, head level with his chest, Valeria stared at Harry for a long, drawn out moment before nodding curtly. “Good. Feel sorry and use that as a goad to get better. Slytherin can still win the House Cup. Thanks to Flint’s strategy and great plays from the rest of the team, we had enough points to tie the game. Stay focused, do everything Flint says,  _ don’t  _ let someone else catch the Snitch, and win the rest of our matches. Maybe then I’ll think about forgiving you.”

“I will,” Harry promised fervently, looking from her to the still silent Flint.

Brow furrowed, Flint met Harry’s eyes and finally spoke. “I put out my neck for you and chose you for my team. You made me look bad.” Harry flinched, wanting to sink through the floor and disappear. “I’m not happy, but at least we didn’t lose. I expect better from you.” Flint took Valeria’s bag from her hand and slid it over his opposite shoulder before pausing. “That said, don’t let this break you. I’m glad you didn’t get hurt worse. Crap happens during a game, but you’re still my choice for Slytherin Seeker. I’ll see you at practice.” Inclining his head, Flint put his hand on Valeria’s lower back and ushered her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, life just isn’t fair. Poor Harry and poor Hermione! Thanks to my awesome beta readers! Check out my Indygodusk tumblr for images of characters.


	5. Valeria's Announcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazingly awesome beta dizzysappedweak!

No one could figure out who had petrified Colin Creevey and Mrs. Norris, but everyone was creeped out. Trying to find the culprit was a good way to avoid his own problems, so Harry brainstormed for ideas. Thinking of his favorite tapestry, Harry wondered about gorgons being the culprit behind the petrifications, though he’d thought they turned people to actual stone. He couldn’t remember if the facts he remembered about gorgons came from the wizarding world, from his muggle schooling, or from a movie Dudley had watched with his friends while Harry dusted the picture frames on the walls. When he heard Hagrid exclaim, “galloping gorgons!” when he got surprised, Harry decided to visit Hagrid with Blaise later that day to see what the half-giant would let slip about gorgons being involved.

Unfortunately, Hagrid denied it straight off, and not in a nervous bumbling way that showed he was lying. “Nah, good guess, Harry, but Dumbledore’s checked fer that. Besides,” Hagrid pushed aside the dead rooster randomly sitting on his counter to reach the plate of rock-hard cauldron cakes, putting one on Harry’s plate and topping up Blaise’s tea even though Blaise had only taken a single sip before grimacing and putting his cup down on the nearest flat surface, “Gorgons prob’ly hate bein’ cold—bein’ part snake an’ all. I ‘spect most would do jussabout anythin’ ter avoid a Scottish winter. They’re intelligent, strong willed, an’ don’ live longer ‘n most witches, makin’ it unlikely Slytherin stashed one here a full thousan’ years ago. Rare too—almos’ never leave their native Greece, though I did hear tell o’ one a few centuries back marryin’ a blind wizard an’ followin’ ‘im overseas ter America.”

“Ew, someone actually married one? Even blind, it would be hard to miss the snakes,” Blaise shuddered and wrinkled his nose.

Harry tried to picture how that’d work. “Maybe he… really liked snakes? Or getting his head scratched?” As long as the snakes were nice, it might not be too bad.

Hagrid chuckled. “Love kin ‘appen wi’ anyone. Jus’ take me ma an’ pa.” He slapped his knee and took a big gulp of tea, missing the baffled look Harry and Blaise exchanged on trying to imagine how a giant even bigger than Hagrid and a human worked as a couple. 

“The gorgon in America did petrify a bunch o’ slavers an’ impor’nt but corrupt officials, so I ‘spose she caused a spot o’ trouble, but yanno, gorgons ‘r actually very sweet.” 

Harry rolled his eyes at Blaise when Hagrid wasn’t looking. Hagrid was a kind man, but his opinions on dangerous creatures were not to be trusted. It was probably one of the reasons why Hagrid’s favorite person in the world was Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard alive. Dumbledore often acted kind, absent-minded, eccentric, and grandfatherly, but everyone in Slytherin knew he had to be a thousand times more dangerous than he seemed considering the things he’d done and the power he wielded behind the scenes over so many people and governments.

“Now yer gorgons,” Hagrid continued, “they’re jus’ misunderstood ‘cause most a ‘em are considered ugly. They can’t stand injustice or evil, ‘specially when done by a man, so they’re sorta like unicorns in not likin’ males... ‘cept unicorns won’ hunt men down an’ turn ‘em ter stone or rip their arms an’ legs off if’n you make ‘em mad.” Hagrid shrugged and tossed a cauldron cake into his mouth, crunching down and missing the way Blaise and Harry flinched at his description. 

“Wouldn’t it be broken instead of ripped into pieces since the men were already stone?” Harry asked, fascinated by how strong Hagrid’s teeth were as they easily pulverized the hard cauldron cake in seconds, speaking of things that were like stones. 

“No,” Blaise said, “gorgons just petrify people, like Creevy and Mrs. Norris. It’s not an actual transfiguration.”

Hagrid pointed a finger the size of a baguette at them. “Yeh’d think, but there’re differen’ types o’ head snakes an’ effects dependin’ on the region where they’re born, though no one’s survived long enough ter study ‘em all. We jus’ know that nowadays, wizards who run inter gorgons are sometimes foun’ petrified, sometimes foun’ as statues, and other times ripped ter itty bitty gobs o’ flesh an’ blood an’—” he looked at their wide-eyed faces and winced “—shouldn’ta said tha’. Anyhow, back when wizards invented Mandrake Potion, some gorgons go’ offended an’ taught themselves how ter send their snakes ter sleep fer a bit. Not because they’re ashamed o’ their power or scared o’ wizards, but because rippin’ an evil man inter pieces by hand meant he’d stay gone fer good instead o’ comin’ back fer revenge. Some also found the sprays o’ blood an’ screams of pain more satisfyin’ than the silence o’ petrification or stone, but tha’s jus’ hearsay.” He looked at them and winced again. “Prob’ly shouldn’a said tha’ either.”

“Lovely,” Blaise’s face was screwed up as he shivered. “That’s nicely gruesome. Sounds like Valeria, maybe they’re related. Also, remind me to never vacation in Greece—or the Americas now that they have gorgons too. I’m surprised they let one emigrate from Greece.”

Sighing gustily, Hagrid brushed crumbs out of his beard. “It was a big ol’ scandal back ‘n the day. Mandrakes are hard ter grow in America, makin’ the Mandrake Restorative Potion more ‘n most could afford. Greece initially got in trouble with the ICW fer lettin’ her leave, though in the end the charges didn’ stick ‘cause a big clan o’ Veela got involved when the ICW tried ter pass a law that semi-humans shouldn’ be allowed ter marry pure humans or inherit property an’ that semi-humans shouldn’a bin allowed ter leave a country withou’ a bill o’ sale. Veela get very touchy ‘bout anyone implyin’ they’re not good enough ter marry, much less that people should be able ter sell ‘em like slaves. Yeh don’ wanna Veela mad at yeh because tha’ leads ter fireballs ‘n painful screechin’ an’ yer beard gettin’ half burned off an’—” Hagrid patted his beard mournfully before glancing up and cutting himself off. “Not that I’d know, o’ course.” He looked to the side and grimaced, obviously lying.

Harry blinked for a moment before asking, “What’s a Veela?” 

Blaise explained about Veela being gorgeous semi-human magical beings who had a natural allure could entice people to do crazy things to impress them, but that when they lost their temper they turned into scary bird-like creatures that threw fireballs. 

“Yikes,” Harry said, sitting back on his chair. “But Hagrid, isn’t it possible that a gorgon could’ve come to Hogwarts recently and started petrifying people? It fits the evidence.”

“Dumbledore said it isn’t a gorgon and so it isn’t. Yeh kin always trus’ Dumbledore,” Hagrid said firmly.

Harry sighed, a little frustrated by the answer, though Harry had a lot of trust in the headmaster too. “Well, are you sure you don’t know what else it could be?” 

Frowning, Hagrid shook his massive head slowly. “Wish I did. Mebbe then we wouldn’ have so many people jumpin’ at shadows an’ pointing fingers at innocen’ creatures an’ people jus’ ‘cause they look differen’....” His expression became unusually dark and brooding as he trailed off, glaring darkly at the floor between his feet.

“Hagrid?” Harry leaned forward and put a hand on the half-giant’s enormous knee. “Are you alright?”

Blinking, Hagrid forced a smile on his face. “Right enough. Dumbledore’ll figure it out before long an’ that Mandrake Potion’ll restore the victims in jus’ a few more months, so don’ yeh kids worry none. It’ll all work out. Trus’ in Dumbledore, yeh?”

Dissatisfied and wishing he could just figure out who the monster petrifying people was and get the creepy voice in the walls to stop, not to mention make sure no one else got hurt, Harry made the mistake of taking a bite of Hagrid’s cauldron cake without soaking it in tea for a few minutes first and almost broke a tooth. The sweetness of the bit he’d scraped off didn’t make up for the bruised gums and aching in his jaw. Feeding the rest of it to Fang when Hagrid was distracted, Harry and Blaise made small talk for a few more minutes before returning to the castle.

-oo0oo-

Most students didn’t bother looking for a creature, instead focusing on finding out who the heir of Slytherin in charge of the monster was and blaming them. The consensus was that it had to be someone in Slytherin, with Harry as the most popular person to blame, though Draco was rather proud to be a close runner up after Flint and Valeria. The distrust was uncomfortable, though most of the school was merely annoying about it except for the cocky, outspoken Gryffindors. 

Gryffindors were always the worst. Not only did they keep reminding people how they’d been saying for years that everyone sorted into Slytherin was dark and evil, but they also kept making fun of Harry for what had happened in the recent Quidditch match, which was frankly a whole lot more irritating. In shared classes and when passing in the hallways, they made sure to start loudly talking about how Harry missed an easy grab at the Snitch, fallen off his broom, and had to be saved from cracking his head open by their reserve Seeker in her very first game ever, making it sound like he was even more pitiful because a reserve instead of main line member had been forced to rescue him, nevermind that their main Seeker had played horribly and injured himself out. 

They also thought what had happened with Lockhart was hilarious. “Remember how Potter looked when his arm went all boneless and floppy?” someone would call, to which most of the nearby Gryffindors would chorus, “Fell off with a plop, then his arm flopped!” before dissolving into mean laughter. 

Rolling his eyes, Blaise kept telling Harry to ignore it for now so he could rub Slytherin’s victory in their faces later. “They’re just trying to get the rest of the school to forget how horribly they played that game and that the only reason they didn’t lose is sheer dumb luck. If your hair had been that long and bushy, we’d have caught the Snitch instead and won by a landslide.”

Harry swallowed and tried to play along. “So you’re saying I should grow out my hair?” He sent Blaise a faint, sideways smile, grateful for his support even if ignoring the other voices wasn’t quite that easy.

“Oh definitely, the longer the better. Then we can have braiding parties in our room at night.” Blaise sounded completely earnest before he dissolved into laughter and threw an arm over Harry's shoulder to pull him into their next class, ignoring the elbow Harry dug half-heartedly into his side.

Ron Weasley was one of the loudest voices in pointing out to everyone how Harry must be evil. His most important evidence for this seemed to be that Harry had betrayed everyone’s expectations for the Boy-Who-Lived by being sorted into Slytherin. Weasley acted like Harry had personally betrayed him by not joining him in Gryffindor after they’d spoken on the train, despite the fact that the Sorting Hat made the final choice, not the child. It got to the point that Harry was seriously tempted to stop discouraging his roommates from bullying others and instead help them corner the redhead after class to teach him a lesson in shutting up. Harry might’ve also been responsible for loosening the cap of Weasley’s inkwell so it spilled in his bag and heating the chocolates he’d smuggled into class so they melted all over his books, but if asked by anyone outside Slytherin, he would claim ignorance.

As for Hermione, Gryffindor’s reserve Seeker extraordinaire, every time Harry even looked at her his stomach filled with what felt like wiggling snakes. He didn’t know what to think about that, so he tried not to look at her at all. She’d betrayed him and stolen his Snitch! She’d made him a laughingstock in the halls and turned half of Slytherin against him when he’d lost the game! She’d lost him respect and prestige! He kept expecting her to join in on the teasing and really twist the dagger home, but she never even looked at him anymore, much less talked to him, as if he had been the one to hurt her feelings instead of the other way around. She was also impossible to ignore because her curls were just too big and her voice too ringing when she spoke in class, which was constantly since she always had her hand up to answer a question and got called on regularly to demonstrate a new technique the rest of them hadn’t gotten as quickly. 

Though to be honest, she looked more sad than smug lately, which just twisted him up even more. Were her new friends not treating her right? He shouldn’t care that she was unhappy. He shouldn’t want to fix it.

And he definitely shouldn’t put himself at risk to protect her, but somehow, he just couldn’t help himself when he turned a corner and glanced over to see Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode, the two most socially powerful Slytherin girls in his year, tormenting Hermione in the shadow of a big ugly statue of a hag riding a hippogriff. Millicent had a hand fisted in Hermione’s hair—was touching her  _ curls _ —and had twisted Hermione’s head down so Pansy could say something mean in her ear. Hermione’s wand had fallen to the floor and rolled out of reach.

“No! You! Don’t!” Harry shouted without thought, rushing forward. His heart raced and everything became crystal clear in the hall, the slant of Millicent’s and Pansy’s fingers, the angle of their wands, and the curve of the brown curls falling into Hermione’s watering eyes and catching on her pain-twisted lips. “ _ How dare you _ .” Harry’s voice shook, but with rage, not fear. “Let her go. Now,” he snapped harshly, prepared to toss them back and blast them with the strongest jinx he knew.

The two girls jumped away from Hermione as if burned, turning to look at him with eyes wide enough to show the whites. Harry hadn’t known before that moment if he ranked above or below the girls in his year because they’d never really clashed in any of the dominance games played in his house. Now was as good a time as any to find out. 

“What—Potter?” Pansy stuttered, looking over at Millicent. “We were just—just—” 

“—just getting back at her for what happened during the game,” Millicent finished uneasily.

“Yeah.” Pansy tossed her hair back, took a breath, and lifted her chin, stepping away from Hermione to meet Harry’s eyes and try to stare him down. She was taller than he was after the last summer and seemed to gain courage from the fact that she was looking down at him as they went toe to toe. “What’s your problem? Don’t you want revenge for losing the game?”

Harry was used to being smaller than everyone else. It was part of his calculations but never a deciding factor. “If I want revenge, I’ll take it myself,” he bit out. 

Grabbing hold of his temper, he tried to think through the pulsing anger filling his ears with static. He probably couldn’t win against them if they started throwing around spells or punches. Pansy was manipulative, ambitious, and cunning. Her cousins had taught her several nasty jinxes outside of school and she had a knack for getting other girls, even those a little older, to follow her around and go along with her plans. Millicent was cunning too, but she was also a big girl who had a problem keeping her temper. When she lost it, she’d wrestle her opponent to the floor and sit on their back or put them in a headlock, keeping them too distracted to cast magic. He’d seen her take down Vincent once when he’d pulled the tail of her cat. 

Taking them on together hadn’t been one of his brightest ideas. Somehow, Harry had to say something to keep them off balance. “We didn’t lose the game, Pansy, we  _ tied _ ... unless you’ve been telling people otherwise and besmirching the reputation of our house?” He channeled Valeria into his stare and leaned forward, forcing her to take a small step back as she flinched away, tipping the scales of power in his direction. 

“N—no, of course not.” Pansy looked away and tugged at the hem of her robe, conceding. Millicent hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms, making herself smaller as she dropped her eyes too.

“Good.” Harry nodded slowly and looked between her and Millicent, seeing from the corner of his eye Hermione watching them warily as she crouched down to pick up her wand. 

As soon as Hermione had it in her hand again her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed on Millicent’s back. It looked like they hadn’t had time to do anything but give her a little scare and prick her pride. He wanted to go to her but he had to deal with Pansy and Millicent first for  _ daring  _ to hurt  _ his friend _ —Harry cut off that thought sharply. Hermione wasn’t his friend, not anymore, but... that didn’t mean he knew how to look away while someone tried to hurt her. Not when he could stop it.

Licking his lips, Harry took a deep breath and focused back on Pansy. “Look, Granger’s off-limits, understand?” 

Pansy pursed her lips petulantly and let her eyes drift over his shoulder. “Whatever,” she muttered rebelliously. 

Harry’s eyes flicked to the shifting red fringe on Hermione’s scarf as she slowly stepped away from the group of distracted Slytherins and in the direction of the more public hallways. It gave him an idea. “Weasley on the other hand…” he said leadingly, tilting his head, wagging his eyebrows, and giving Pansy a little smirk, which she grudgingly returned after a few seconds. 

Millicent huffed and dropped her arms. “That Ron Weasley is the worst. I swear, he glares if one of us so much as sneezes in his direction and purposely bumps into my desk to make my ink spill. Last week he stepped on Daphne’s bag and cracked a present from her mum.” She smacked her wand into her palm and scowled. 

Wrinkling her nose, unfortunately making it look even more pug-like, Pansy nodded decisively. “Yeah, someone should take Weasley down a few pegs.” She pushed a lock of dark hair off her face and cleared her throat, glancing at Harry from the corner of her eye. “You want in, Potter?” 

“Sure,” Harry said easily, more than willing to make trouble for Weasley. “And call me Harry.” He looked up just in time to catch Hermione aiming a disappointed and hurt look his way. Harry held her gaze, refusing to let her see him flinch. She didn’t get to look at him like that after he’d just saved her, much less after the way she’d betrayed him to her new team—her new friends. 

Turning away, Hermione slipped around the corner and disappeared, making everything look suddenly duller and giving him a sour stomach.

-oo0oo-

After a couple of weeks with Valeria’s words bouncing around in his head and regularly knocking things loose, not to mention the rumors about him finally dying down to a simmer as juicier gossip replaced it, Harry calmed down, looked at his own reactions with a more critical eye, and decided that maybe he did need to take more responsibility for his actions instead of creating excuses. It took another week, a chat with Hagrid, an even more uncomfortable chat with Blaise, several searching stares from across the room from Hermione, and numerous long walks around the castle grounds to admit that maybe not everything that had gone wrong had been Hermione’s fault. 

The bludger had clearly been all Dobby, not Hermione, and a large number of Slytherins and Gryffindors had already decided they disliked him based on rumors and reputation way before the match had even started. 

Hermione also, maybe,  _ possibly  _ might not have kept her status on the Gryffindor team a secret from him on purpose to betray him on game day. Maybe. The first time he’d seen her after tryouts, he’d pantomimed making the Slytherin team and she’d mouthed something back with a smile. He’d written it down on his notes for the day as, “ _ meow, ID goo, butona reori,” _ which he’d later dismissed as nonsense when it hadn’t related to the potion they’d made, but, looking back at the words, maybe she’d actually been trying to tell him something important. Playing with the sounds and a spare piece of parchment, he realized that she could’ve been mouthing, “ _ me too, I did too, but on the reserve team. _ ” If so, that meant she had tried to tell him ahead of the game. Possibly. 

And after that she’d tried to talk to him several times but he’d been too busy making new friends and allies to make time for her, assuming she’d still be there waiting when he wanted her—which, yes, selfish, he could admit that now—and then the Weasleys had kept her away from him once he decided he wanted his friend back again. So from her perspective it was possible that she thought that he was the one being the bad friend. Potentially. Despite searching his memories, he also couldn’t think of a single time that she’d personally avoided him. Not until now, at least. Now they were both avoiding each other.

When Madam Hooch had sought him out after the game, Harry had learned that she’d been distracted a few critical seconds by the other Bludger hitting the tail of Draco’s broom and causing him to spin out of control and take two Gryffindors and the Quaffle with him, leading to all three players slamming into the side of a tower and then getting into a slap fight as they tried to get untangled and take possession of the Quaffle, bringing in the rest of the players to brawl. Madam Hooch hadn’t seen Harry falling off his broom until the last second. If Hermione hadn’t caught him falling from that high up, he might've smashed his head open and died despite the cushioning charms or become a drooling vegetable that even magic couldn’t fix. It had happened to other players over the years—that’s why everyone had to sign a waiver to play. And after they’d landed, safely thanks to Hermione, she’d even cried and seemed frantic to make sure he was okay, which didn’t really fit in with the idea of a conniving traitor who mocked him behind his back and spilled all his secrets to her teammates. It might fit a Slytherin, but not a Gryffindor like Hermione.

In fact, the only secret the Weasley twins had flung in his face had been Hermione’s place on the reserve team. Even their use of the word “freak” could’ve been a coincidence, as they hadn’t used it since despite singing the  _ Lost Snitch Floppy Arm _ song every time they saw him for a week straight. If she’d told them more damning or embarrassing things, surely they’d have used them by now. Self-control wasn’t in the Weasley vocabulary.

Hermione also never joined in with Ron Weasley, Thomas, and Finnigan when they started in on Harry during class, or squealed with exaggerated fear when he moved too close like Brown and Patil. She especially didn’t stare at him with creepy eyes during meals and write down everything he said or did in her diary like the Weasley sister.

All in all, it looked like Hermione maybe, possibly,  _ might  _ still be the good person he’d always thought she was. Which, if that was true, probably—no, he could be honest in the privacy of his thoughts— _ definitely _ meant that he owed her an apology for the things he’d said and done. 

However, just thinking about walking up to her in the middle of class or the hallway with everyone watching and listening in as he apologized made him squirm. Plus, if he was wrong and she fooled him twice, Harry didn’t think his heart could take it. He kept poking at what had happened and imagining all the ways his trying to talk to her could go wrong until his head throbbed like a sore tooth. He didn’t know what to do. He missed Hermione, but a Slytherin had his pride. He was afraid to take the risk. If only she would apologize to him so he could magnanimously forgive her and not lose any face... though to be fair, any apology from her would be very short while each day his just seemed to get longer and longer. In the end, he kept putting it off, hoping the problem would somehow solve itself.

-oo0oo-

In the weeks after that first game, with the tense atmosphere in the school and the dangerous nature of some of the older members of his house who’d taken a more open stand against him, it was snidely suggested to Harry that he not travel alone in case of ambush. It was like living in fear of Dudley and his friends all over again, except this time the bullies could attack from a distance because of magic and do more than just punch and kick. Harry hated feeling powerless. 

In fact, he refused to be powerless. Wasn’t he a wizard too? Wasn’t he a Slytherin? Harry evaluated his weaknesses and made a plan. He decided to ask an older and more experienced student to teach him a few good jinxes and counters for the next time he got cornered. Harry was tired of running away from bullies. If he got attacked, he wanted to make them regret it and teach them not to do it again—to him or anyone else. 

Harry decided to ask Terence and Miles. When they easily agreed to help, he asked to keep their lessons private, wanting his enemies to underestimate him. It seemed like everything had worked out easier than he’d hoped for.

However, they weren’t quite sneaky enough when they started meeting. Draco noticed Harry sneaking off with the two older boys and threw a fit, demanding to know if Harry was getting private Quidditch lessons so he could take over Draco’s Chaser spot. Irritated, Harry considered confirming the theory just to be difficult, but decided that in the end it wasn’t worth the hassle. On hearing that Harry was actually just learning advanced jinxes and other defensive spells, Draco told the rest of their roommates and they all got excited and insisted on tagging along for the next lesson. Unfortunately for Draco and the rest of Harry’s roommates, Valeria had also noticed Harry, Terence, and Miles slipping off together and decided to investigate. 

Harry probably should’ve expected it. After training him, Valeria had gotten very proprietary. Even after he lost the match she hadn’t let up, ambushing him regularly and interrogating him to make sure he was keeping up with his training, wasn’t falling behind in classwork, and was eating a good balance of vegetables and protein and not gorging on pudding. 

When he accidentally let slip that he wasn’t sleeping well, she got Flint to find him a new pillow and got someone who owed her a favor to fetch dreamless sleep potion from Snape without letting on who they were really for. 

She claimed that it was pure self-interest because she needed to watch Harry closely and make sure he got powerful enough to make calling in his debt to her worth it. However, it didn’t feel like she was just shaping a future tool. Beneath her scary demeanor, she acted sort of like a bossy and mildly abusive older sister. Privately, he kinda liked it. He wasn’t used to someone checking up on him, especially not because they cared about him. It was nice feeling cared for.

Sometimes, Harry wondered what had happened in Valeria‘s past to make her so harsh on the outside when she had such a good heart on the inside, but he was never brave enough to ask. Whatever it was had to have been something pretty bad, considering how she kept most people at a distance and could lash out at anyone who tried to get too close. Even Flint wasn’t immune, though so far he’d managed to shrug it off enough to keep dating her. Harry worried that she’d been raised like him and didn’t know how to love or be loved, but had no idea how to fix that for either of them.

From what Blaise had been able to find out from the rumor mill and Pansy Parkinson—a distant cousin of Valeria who’d only spoken to Blaise because she owed him a favor and he’d promised to keep her involvement absolutely secret and do all of her homework assignments for a week—Valeria’s grandfather had been one of Grindelwald’s followers back in Spain but had managed to buy himself out of any serious punishment. A few decades later he’d squandered his fortune, so he sold (or married off if you wanted to be technical) his fourteen year old daughter to a rich British wizard in his eighties. Valeria had been born just a few years later, soon followed by a little sister. Her father had children from previous wives but they were all adults by the time Valeria was born. Pansy didn’t know much about them except that one of the half-brothers lived off and on in a wing of the family mansion and had made Pansy uncomfortable the few times she’d met him. Valeria’s mother had died while trying to birth a third child. Valeria’s little sister—who’d rarely been seen at family gatherings according to Pansy—had died just after turning eleven. Valeria’s father had not remarried, though the average wizard lived to around 137 years old so supposedly he still could. It would be gross, especially considering he preferred his wives to be barely out of puberty, but being wealthy let people get away with a multitude of sins.

Harry wasn’t sure if knowing any of that would help, but he tucked it away just in case, making Blaise promise not to tell anyone else and trying to keep Valeria’s tragic background in mind when she was being particularly vexing.

Both Ravenclaws and Slytherins believed that knowledge was power, but where Ravenclaws focused on facts and the written word, Slytherins focused on relationships and motivations. It was almost impossible to keep a secret for long in the Slytherin dungeons, though at least Harry wasn’t dim enough to boast about what he did to everyone in the common room like some people. Despite word getting around in Slytherin that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened fifty years before, no one had even a hint of who’d done it this time (despite some idiots boasting and trying to claim credit in a transparent attempt to gain more status), which made Harry wonder if it wasn’t someone who’d been sorted into another house. Since he didn’t have any proof, Harry listened for more clues before doing anything big to try and exonerate himself in front of the rumormongers. He was still more impulsive and reckless than the ideal Slytherin, but he was trying to get better and had five more years to improve himself. 

Not that Valeria was the ideal either. Like most Slytherins, she insisted on knowing as much as possible about what was going on with people, but just because she knew all of the alliances and enmities and who owed whom a favor didn’t mean she had the desire or inclination to cultivate and maintain a network of relationships. She was a control freak with a short temper and an unwillingness to trust others or let down her guard. The most successful Slytherins didn’t scare people into helping them, they made people want to help them or even think helping was their own idea. Successful leaders had charisma.

For example, people often helped Flint because they admired him and saw him as helping them and hurting their enemies. Helping Flint meant helping themselves by making the Slytherin reputation more powerful and prestigious. When Slytherin house won, all Slytherins won, especially because everyone up to and including Headmaster Dumbledore didn’t want them to. (Harry respected Dumbledore a lot, but he did unfairly favor Gryffindor.)

When Harry’s roommates insisted on tagging along to his tutoring with Terence and Miles, Valeria had waited for almost ten minutes before stepping out and scared them all half to death. As Harry awkwardly explained how he wanted to defend himself better from other students and how few defense spells he knew considering the bad quality of his DADA teachers over the last two years—Blaise interjecting that you’d think someone possessed by Voldemort would actually know a lot about the Dark Arts versus the nothing they’d actually gotten with Quirrell, not to mention the uselessness of Lockhart’s current magical fumbling and mirror gazing—Harry braced himself for Valeria’s disappointment and another lecture on taking personal responsibility. 

Instead, Valeria had interrogated the other second year boys while Terence and Miles sat meekly against the wall out of her way. When she’d seen that most of them were similarly ignorant in spellcraft, she’d gone off on a rant at the slipping standards in Slytherin House and the failure of both Hogwarts and their families in teaching them to protect themselves. She made particular note that even the purebloods weren’t up to snuff, which had Harry turning away from Theo and Draco to hide a smirk. 

Valeria had very strong feelings about how things should and should not be done, making it clear that none of the second year boys were up to her standards. Despite that, she didn’t do anything except tell them about it and then stalk off. Everyone else breathed a sigh of relief and went back to what they were doing. Harry, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d gotten off too easy.

Several days later, Valeria strode up to Harry and his roommates where they were studying at a table on one side of the sparsely populated common room and—giving no warning—cast a spell that shoved all their things off of the table and onto their laps, covering everyone in spilled ink, loose quills, scrolls, and food crumbs. 

Everyone else in the room—on hearing their shocked cries and seeing Valeria standing over their table—immediately jumped to their feet and fled, leaving Harry and his roommates alone and at the mercy of Valeria’s temper.

“Hey! What was that for?” Draco asked petulantly, brushing futilely at the ink splattered down his front from wrist to chin. He’d been in an awful mood ever since reading his father’s letter this morning. “These robes are boutique.” Looking up, he sucked in a quick breath as if for courage and raised his chin arrogantly. “Wait until my father hears about this,” he threatened, looking confident unless you knew him well enough to recognize the nervous thinning of his lips.

Worried about Valeria’s reaction to Draco’s attitude, Harry surreptitiously slid his chair to the side to get more distance from where Draco sat on the other side of the table. He wished he could stand up and leave too, but that would probably draw too much attention. Valeria liked him, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t hurt him a little if she felt like it would teach him a useful lesson.

Thankfully Valeria completely ignored Draco’s complaints and Harry’s shuffling, putting her hands on her hips as she surveyed them. “I have an announcement, my helpless little snakes.” She had a strange glint in her eye that made Harry sink down lower in his chair and hold his breath, despite knowing that the sturdy table couldn’t possibly protect him from whatever she was about to say or do.

“I have two more years here at Hogwarts and during that time you are all going to owe me quite a lot. Your families are going to owe me too, so do feel free to tell them about me.” She sent a hard look at Draco that made him swallow loudly, the cocky look on his face cracking. She smirked. “You’ll be pleased to hear that I’m thinking of becoming a Professor after graduation.” Eyes wide, Blaise sent Harry a look of panic. “I don’t like people,” Valeria waved her hand languidly, “but then again neither does Professor Snape and he’s successfully taught here for years. To explore this career impulse, I’ve generously decided to sacrifice my free time and start tutoring you in Defen—”

Looking appalled, Draco put his hands on the arms of his chair as if to stand up and interrupted her mid-word, “I really don’t think—” 

Eyes going flat, Valeria flicked her wand and snapped an incantation. Violet light streamed from the tip of her wand as white goo coated the lower half of Draco’s face, muffling his words and stretching and dribbling in long white strands onto his ink-splattered robes as he tried to keep talking. The goo spread and thickened, sticking his chair to the floor and his hands and legs to the arms of the chair. Summoning Draco’s wand out of his robes before he could even think to grab at it, Valeria tossed it into a white puddle on the floor. 

Everyone else at the table froze like mice under the eyes of a hungry snake, trying not to catch her attention and get eaten next.

Grimacing lightly, Valeria shook her head. “Really, Draco. You  _ don’t  _ think—that’s the problem and it’s going to get you and the people you care about hurt, assuming you do care about anyone but yourself. In fact, I feel like my first lesson should be about you. Let’s talk social politics, shall we? As a Malfoy, great things are expected of you, yes? Yet if we contrast your father’s lofty reputation with your underwhelming conduct, inconsistent behavior, and the lackluster tenor of your alliances since coming to Hogwarts, well, I would think that even you would realize that it’s only the turn of your face and distinctive coloring that’s stopping people from loudly questioning your Malfoy heritage, not to mention your future prospects. No one’s impressed by a boy getting his face turned into a fruit salad.”

“Valeria,” Harry protested through fear-numb lips, but she just shot him a sharp look to shut him up. Harry fisted his trembling hands on his thighs, afraid to intervene and be the next one to get hurt, afraid that whatever he said would just make things worse for all of them. 

Valeria tsked and turned back to Draco with a curled lip. “If something doesn’t change soon, you’re going to end up a lackey instead of a leader and a poor one at that, no matter how loudly you bark about your father being a big dog or how often you beg scraps from his table as gifts to impress others. Someone stronger than you is going to chew you up and—as soon as your flavor falls out of favor—spit you out into the trash. No one will want you then. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if your father regularly tells you the same thing, maybe even started humiliating you privately in front of his friends last summer where he left you alone before. I’m sure he’s been doing it to your mother for years, but she was able to protect you until you started school and got old enough to be useful.” Draco’s eyes had gone glassy and his skin as pale as his hair, Valeria’s words obviously stabbing straight to his heart and slicing him open from chest to navel. 

Valeria stalked behind Draco’s chair, unexpectedly fisting a hand in his hair and yanking his head back as far as it would go, staring down into his face with eyes that glittered like shattered glass. “Being a pretty child just makes it worse. How long will he protect you from the appetites of the men who eat at his table? Especially if it puts him at risk? Will he be able or even willing to protect you from the rising darkness?” Eyes rolling and nostrils flaring wide, Draco fought for air, the cords of his neck straining like deep roots resisting being pulled from the ground. He obviously couldn’t breathe, but Valeria just held the stretch and stared through him, almost as if she wasn’t seeing Draco at all as she whispered, “You can’t trust their promises. They won’t protect you and you’re still too weak to protect anyone else.”

“Stop.” Harry found himself standing. He couldn’t take another second of Draco being hurt like this, not if he wanted to look himself in the eye later. It wasn’t in him. He didn’t bother going for his wand, knowing that any magical duel would probably be lost before he got out a single spell. “Please stop, Valeria. He can’t breathe and you’re hurting him. You’re a good person. You’re better than this. Stop.  _ Valeria _ .”

Blinking rapidly, she finally looked over and then up at Harry’s face. Frowning ferociously, she snapped, “Sit. Down.” Despite the menacing tone, Harry held her gaze and stayed standing, refusing to back down. 

Focused on Harry, she loosened her grip enough that Draco could drop his chin. Draco sucked air in loudly and desperately through flaring nostrils, sobbing for breath and making the white goo around his mouth form a bubble before it lost air and sagged down his chin and throat. 

“ _ Harry _ ,” she snapped, “ _ sit _ .” Her wand spat out a stinging jinx that stabbed at his legs ferociously, like being stung by a swarm of angry wasps. Flinching at the pain, Harry exhaled raggedly and lifted his chin, stubbornly locking his rapidly swelling knees and continuing to stare at her in mute protest. Valeria’s eyes narrowed. Her lips parted, showing a hint of teeth and a crooked left incisor. Harry braced himself for another attack, the only sound in the room Draco’s labored breathing.

After a long, drawn out moment she lowered her wand and looked away dismissively, turning back to Draco and giving his cheek a hard double tap. “I just want Draco to listen and learn his lesson about interrupting. You are listening now, aren’t you Draco?”

The fingers in Draco’s hair tightened while she waited for an answer. Draco forced a sound of agreement past the white goo covering his mouth. “Mmph-hmm.” 

“And you won’t interrupt me again?”

“Mm-mm.” Draco shook his head as much as he could with her dark fingers still fisted in his pale hair like winter-bare branches cutting up the pale moonlight. Two tears trickled down Draco’s cheeks.

The corners of Valeria’s mouth turned down as she looked up and around at the rest of them, pausing for a heavy moment on where Harry was still standing, before returning to gaze down at Draco. “I say this to your face instead of behind your back because I am a good person. I’m trying to help you. You need to be strong to survive. The world is cruel and unfair, especially to children.” Her face sagged. “Either be powerful enough to protect yourself and those you love or align yourself with someone powerful enough to do it for you.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “And make sure they can’t betray their promises. They will if they can get away with it.” She drew in a ragged breath. “You have to learn when to sink to your knees and keep your own council and when to stay standing and fight.” Her words resonated in Harry’s mind, true enough except for how they failed to mention ideas like mercy, kindness, and friendship.

She started stroking Draco’s hair, smoothing it back into place. “Slytherin is the hardest house at Hogwarts because it breaks you down before building you back up. We are surrounded by enemies here and nothing is easy, yet at the same time it is perhaps the safest place to sculpt yourself into something new because we are all becoming together. Open your eyes and learn.” She looked around the table again, pausing on each of their faces as she spoke. “Learn the humility to subordinate yourself to a stronger power and learn. Compensate for your weaknesses and hone your strengths. Learn to protect yourself and whether you are strong enough to protect others. Learn how to be either a valued follower or a persuasive leader. Learn what is most important to you and what you will do to keep it. Learn who you are and how to succeed at hard things. Learn how to win.” 

Putting her hands on Draco’s cheeks, she bent her neck and leaned forward, pressing the crown of his head against her body as she stared down into his eyes. “I’m trying to help you, Draco Malfoy. Remember that and don’t disrespect me again.” More tears escaped Draco’s eyes as he blinked in acknowledgement. “Next time, Harry might not be here to remind me I’m trying to be good.” 

Releasing Draco, Valeria moved back to where she’d started—standing at the head of the table. Her voice sounded slightly brittle as she began again. “You’re all weak, but you don’t have to stay that way. I’m going to teach you how to keep yourselves safe and how to attack your enemies like a true Slytherin, not some bumbling Hufflepuff, lack-witted Gryffindor, or impractical Ravenclaw. Whether you fail or succeed is up to your aptitude and your attitude. I won’t waste my time on the lazy. We will be meeting weekly on Tuesday nights after dinner. Our sessions will also include the second year girls since Pansy is a distant cousin and needs to know how to defend herself. I’ll be informing the girls of that shortly. Since I’ve already cleared the time with Captain Flint to make sure it doesn’t conflict with Quidditch practice, the only excuse I’ll accept for not attending is... death.” 

When she lifted her wand everyone at the table sucked in their breath. Valeria’s lips curved in a subtle smile. She spoke another unfamiliar spell, sending a ray of blue light at Draco that made the goo turn watery and pale pink. It melted off his body and onto the floor in sickly-sweet smelling puddles as she turned and walked away. No one moved until she was gone.

As soon as Harry heard the click of the common room door closing, his legs gave out and he collapsed down onto his chair, shaking uncontrollably. His legs hurt from knee to hip, hot and swollen from the stinging jinx. He’d known Valeria wasn’t to be crossed, but he’d never seen her that terrifying before. He’d grown complacent and been caught by surprise. 

Chair scraping loudly, Draco jumped to his feet and turned his back, wiping his face clean with the sleeve of his robe. His shoulders hitched as he fought for breath and composure. Vincent lurched away from the table, his chair clattering to the floor as he ran away down the hall leading to their room. Greg buried his head in his arms and started to sob. 

“She’s crazy, a nutter, insane!” Theo muttered, rubbing his hands in a constant washing motion. 

Blaise gave a shuddering breath and put his hands flat on the table, though that didn’t hide their trembling. “It doesn’t matter. We have to do what she says.”

“But—” Theo started to say before cutting himself off. Sweat dripped down his cheeks and his eyes showed too much white around the edges. Sucking in a breath, he pushed himself to his feet, clumsily gathered up his things, and stumbled away.

Clearing his dry throat, Harry stood up and limped around the table, patting Greg’s shoulder soothingly and squeezing once in solidarity. Greg’s sobbing quieted but he kept his head down. Harry moved farther down and stooped over to pick up Draco’s slimy wand. He cleaned it best he could using the edge of his robe, deliberating over what to say. “Maybe it won’t be that bad. Valeria’s tough, but she’s also a good teacher and knows loads of spells. I’m sure we’ll learn a lot from her.” He tried to sound positive for his shaken friends.

Harry limped up next to Draco and lowered his voice, “Are you alright?” Draco didn’t answer, just turned his head the other way. Undaunted, Harry held out Draco’s wand on the flat of his palm. “Here.” It took Draco a few seconds to reach out and take it.

“At least we’ll be together,” Harry pointed out optimistically. “And she’s usually not that bad.”

Dropping his head, Draco held the wand against his stomach and shrugged one shoulder. When he spoke his voice was raspy and uncharacteristically meek. “She’s right. We are weak. We have to obey.”

“Obey and get stronger,” Blaise said, coming up on Harry’s other side. “Let’s keep in mind that her main demand is to teach us how to get better. It could be worse, it could be a whole lot worse. If we can learn how to be even a fraction as scary as she is, we’ll rule this place when we’re older and she’s gone. There’s power to be had there.”

“And a chance for revenge,” Draco breathed, head lifting to show the bitter twist of his lips and a muscle twitching at the corner of his goo-streaked jaw. “She humiliated me in front of everyone and I’m going to make her suffer, no matter what I have to do or how long it takes.”

“Now hold on,” Harry said quickly, despite everything still feeling loyal to Valeria. “Let’s put this into perspective. She was coming from a good place in offering to teach us and it wasn’t everyone who saw you, just us—your friends. She just as easily could’ve cast that same spell on any one of us and we all know it.” Though the things she’d said had definitely been targeted at Draco’s vulnerabilities. 

Needing a distraction so the conversation didn’t go in that direction, Harry pulled aside his robe to show the way his trousers were now straining at the seams and full of swollen lumps. “Look, that stinging spell she cast on me gave me thighs the size of Hagrid’s.” 

“Cor, Harry, that looks painful.” Blaise winced. “And she likes you best.”

Harry shrugged, trying to strike the right balance to get his friends to see things his way. “Look Draco, I understand where you’re coming from— _ believe me _ —but that kind of revenge against a person like her is a bad idea. She does stuff like that to people all of the time. It’s not even personal for her. Didn’t you see the state of those Hufflepuffs who’d annoyed her last week? Or the study group Professor Sinistra tried to assign to work with her? If we can still respect you after seeing you strutting around starkers after a bath or with drool crusting your cheek and your hair standing on end in the morning, we’ll still respect you after this. It’s fine.”

Draco looked at Harry from the corner of his eye, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, his face solemn. Too solemn. Harry nudged him gently. “Not that I’m saying that I do respect you, Draco, considering how much hair potion you use every morning to get your hair to look so sleek. In fact, that goo Valeria used was probably hair potion sucked from your pores after years of hair potion abuse. We could probably rebottle it if your supply is running low or you want to sell it to your fanclub.”

Blaise followed Harry’s lead and chuckled, leaning around Harry to look at Draco. “Maybe this is a sign that you should get a new hairstyle. The slicked back helmet look is so first year. I could teach you how to look like me… well, maybe a pale imitation of me. Even you can’t surpass the glory of the real thing.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and preened.

Draco’s eyes rolled and his lips twitched, but he still didn’t quite smile. Maybe that was too much to hope for right now. 

Over by the door, a long procession of spiders marched through a crack in the wall presumably leading to the hallway. Harry thought about pointing it out, but didn’t want Draco to think he was trying to scare him or say that the spiders were obviously scared of Valeria too. He was trying to brighten the mood, not dampen it further.

Hearing a gentle thump behind his back, Harry looked over his shoulder to see Greg gathering up everyone’s things from where they’d been scattered by Valeria’s initial spell and placing them in careful piles. Maybe worshipful praise would work where friendly teasing had failed. “Hey Greg, what do you think of Draco?” Harry asked leadingly.

Pausing, Greg looked up, his eyelashes still clumped in wet spikes and his cheeks bright red. He bit his lip, shoulders curving forward at being the center of attention. His eyes flicked to the side, but there was no Vincent to hide behind and Draco was one of the people staring at him.

“Well, Goyle?” Draco asked, turning and crossing his arms. His arrogant tone was almost perfect except for the quivery little exhale at the end. Everyone pretended not to notice.

“Of—of c-course I respect you,” Greg said slowly, looking earnestly across the table at Draco. “You… you’re the person I’ve chosen to follow. When you decide you want something, you don’t let anything hold you back. You’re witty, cunning, and ambitious. When people look at me, they see fat, ugly, and stupid. When people look at you, they see rich, handsome, and confident. I’ve always admired you. I still admire you. Nothing could change that.”

As Harry had hoped, Draco’s shoulders had relaxed from their tight shape and a pleased smile once more graced his cheeks.

But Greg hadn’t finished his slow, deliberate speech. “As for revenge, I kind of agree with Harry. What she did was wrong, but it wasn’t malicious. Letting it twist you up and drag you down until you become someone bitter and twisted—well, that’s like choosing to take a poison with a hard to find antidote. If a chance comes to get even, of course you should take it—I’ll help you to take it—but otherwise I say let it go, learn from it, and move on. Take what she teaches you and use it to make yourself strong enough that it can’t happen again.” Greg shrugged and looked down diffidently, stacking books and scrolls into piles on the table. “Though of course I’ll support you in whatever you choose to do. You always know better than I do. I have your back, just like always. You know that.”

Expression now neutral, Draco didn’t respond, though he seemed thoughtful. After a moment he moved forward to take his things from Greg. Harry followed quietly, not having anything helpful to add. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving for those in America! I'm thankful for everyone who reads and comments on my story, especially the detailed and supportive comments. You guys are the best! I hope you all had a good day. Despite deciding to do a holiday meal with just the four of us in my family vs the usual 20+ person potluck with my extended family, I ended up making eight dishes and cooking for two days in a row. I have a problem with moderation and went a little crazy trying to make sure the kids and my husband had a good holiday despite the covid restrictions. I ended up donating extras to three other families who are sick or not cooking much this year, but we still have tons leftover. I'm looking forward to the leftovers for tomorrow though! Nevertheless, my feet are killing me and I'm going to bed early after I post this. My 8 yo son just started reading 'Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix.' This series is the first big book series he's ever had the motivation to read, so I'm very proud. I'm worried the later books will be too mature for him and scary, but I'm crossing my fingers. I thought Cedric's death would be too scary but he wasn't that bothered when he actually read it. I told him that if he gets uncomfortable we can talk about it or he can stop reading and get a different book, but maybe I'm just being too much of a worry-wort. Anyway, yay Harry Potter books!


	6. Second Year - Viper School & Moaning Myrtle

The mood was somber at dinner Tuesday night as all of the second years either stuffed their faces like it was their last meal or barely picked at their food. Even Harry, despite already having a good idea of how Valeria’s training worked, found himself too nervous to eat well. Maybe because he knew how her training worked and this time it didn’t have an end date. At least everyone would suffer together this time instead of him suffering alone and being forced to put up with their sly comments. He stashed his uneaten roll in his pocket along with a small pear.

Their first lesson was in an abandoned classroom in a dank corner of the dungeon. Greg, Vincent, and Tracey Davis only lasted fifteen minutes before Valeria lost her temper; they’d been giggling over something in the back of the group and then failing to reproduce the spell she’d just been demonstrating. She kicked all three of them out with a flurry of jinxes, disarmed the entire class, and then threatened to punish the entire group with something ten times worse if even one of them disappointed her for the rest of the night. Gulping, the remaining students made sure their friends stayed focused and helped each other with the spell to keep on Valeria’s good side. 

However, it wasn’t all bad. The first one to get the spell to work, Millicent Bulstrode, was given a Chocolate Frog in reward and a clap on the back by Valeria. When Harry finally managed the spell just before they ended the session, Valeria gave him a firm nod and a proud smile that made him feel taller than Hagrid in a tophat.

During the next session, Theo’s need to be seen as an authority reared its ugly head—that or he was trying to get kicked out like the others and didn’t care about the cost to everyone else—and he actually tried to interrupt and correct Valeria about the effects of a borderline Dark hex. Theo asserted that the hex was more slow and silly than painful or intimidating and thus not worth learning. Draco nodded along with him, even opening his mouth to agree—probably with a reference to his father—before snapping his mouth shut and looking at Valeria fearfully. Theo irritatingly refused to back down or take the hint when Valeria ignored him and continued talking, even repeated himself a little louder. Students couldn’t get away with disrespecting a regular professor like that so Harry didn’t know what Theo was thinking of doing it to Valeria, who didn’t have the constraints a normal teacher did.

Valeria finished her thought and finally turned to Theo with flaring nostrils. “Since you’re determined to be a disrespectful dummy about the Swell and Twist hex, Nott, you can demonstrate instead of the practice dummies I brought.” 

Paling, Theo took a step back, but it was too late. “ _ Animalis Inflonum,”  _ Valeria cast, making Theo drop to the floor with a gurgle. Daphne squeaked and jumped behind Millicent. When nothing else happened, Harry and Blaise exchanged glances and shrugs. Harry tried to include Draco in the look, but the other boy still wasn’t normal around Valeria and was keeping his head down. 

Not seeming worried, Valeria showed them the wand movement again and pronunciation. Over the next few minutes, Theo’s boots fell off and the buttons on his robe popped as his body seemed to be filling with air, his fingers swelling and starting to twist into strange shapes. Theo mostly just seemed uncomfortable and annoyed as his lower left arm twisted into what looked like a balloon cat. 

“I’ve learned my lesson, Valeria,” Theo said, trying but failing to sound humble. “You can cancel the hex.” 

She ignored him. 

“May I rejoin the class now?” he asked even louder. 

She ignored that too.

“In the short term, the Swell and Twist hex—also known as the Balloon animal hex—may seem only like a silly inconvenience and a good joke,” Valeria said, walking around the group and correcting their wand movements. Pansy got a special smile for not needing much help. “In the right circumstances it can be a very useful spell.”

“Aren’t balloons muggle? With the latex?” Harry asked, surprised to find a spell based on muggle toys taught among a group like this.

Valeria shook her head and grabbed his wrist, correcting his wand movement. “Latex is a natural substance sometimes used in magical manufacturing. As for balloons, the earliest were made long before magical and muggle society separated by inflating pig bladders and animal intestines. For example, the ancient American Aztecs inflated cat intestines and twisted them into sculptures to please the gods. The Dark Arts practitioners amongst them preferred sculpting with human intestines during major rituals.”

“Remind me to turn down any party invitations from the Aztecs.” Blaise shuddered theatrically as he practiced the wand movement again on the practice dummy Valeria had “borrowed” from somewhere.

“Seriously,” Harry wrinkled his nose before turning to Valeria with a question. “You said the hex may  _ seem  _ only like a good joke, implying that it isn’t sometimes. What did you mean?”

“The longer the hex is left untreated, the more it inflates and twists the body. Given enough time, it will start to turn from uncomfortable to painful.” She gestured to Theo, who’d started rolling around on the floor as the balloon twists reached his elbows and knees and kept creeping higher. 

“If the person who casts the spell accidentally overcharges it and is strong enough to keep it progressing in their absence—versus someone young and weak whose spells might falter or stall out after a short time and not get past the elbows or shoulders—the twisting can reach the neck and strangle the victim, overinflate the heart so it stops pumping blood, or burst the stomach and intestines and release acid inside the body which will eat through other organs and out through the skin. To put it simply, it will eventually cause death.”

“Then Theo—” Harry swallowed, worried as he looked over. He tried to catch Theo’s eye to see if he wanted help, but Theo just narrowed his eyes at Harry before jerking his head to the side, staring at the wall resentfully. “Take it off, Valeria.” Harry started to move over to Theo, still determined to help him, but Valeria stopped him by stepping into his way.

“I won’t let the hex kill him,” Valeria said, rapping Harry’s elbow to get him to lift his arm back into casting position, “but arguing and trying to talk over me was stupid and rude. Someone else won’t be half as nice.” She caught Harry’s eye and paused, as if his reaction to her next words was important to her. “I am trying to be nice. I won’t let anyone be seriously hurt in my lessons, I promise. You can trust me, Harry.”

Holding her eyes, wrestling with himself, Harry finally gave a slow nod and forced his tense shoulders to relax. “Okay.” He did trust her word. The problem was that Valeria’s definition of  _ seriously hurt _ didn’t match most of his classmates. Then again, neither did Harry’s. In addition to magic, Hogwarts had taught him that nothing about his life was really “normal.” Harry was used to being knocked black and blue by his cousin and uncle, but since coming here he’d gotten the idea that most of his yearmates had never even been punched, much less slapped across the face by their Aunt on the regular. His standards were probably just as warped as Valeria’s. Sighing, he swished his wand, trying to get the spell to work on his practice dummy.

Valeria stopped his next attempt and demonstrated the movement again at a quarter speed. “Better he learn his lesson here than in a drawing room with the kind of wizards the Nott patriarch associates with. Better me than a family member he thought loved him.” Her lips twisted down and the look in her eyes made Harry so uncomfortable he had to look away. “Now, don’t forget to twist your wrist. Try again.” She took a half-step back. 

From the corner of his eye Harry noticed Draco’s shoulders going tight at her words. Draco’s head dropped to look at the floor and he stopped casting, perhaps remembering his own lesson at her hands or something he’d witnessed over the summer in his father’s drawing room. Valeria started to turn Draco’s way, so Harry let his elbow drop again and cleared his throat to draw her attention, casting the hex without twisting his wrist. It earned him another hard rap on the arm—“Ow!”—but by the time he finished demonstrating the proper movement three times in a row, Draco was normal again.

As the lesson went on and Valeria finally thought them competent enough at the hex to start teaching them the counter to it, the swelling and twisting of Theo’s body kept creeping higher and getting larger and more elaborate—the small and simple cat on his arm turning into a large dragon with wings, claws, and a plume of fire. The irritation and discomfort on Theo’s face turned to pain as he started to gasp wetly and moan as the twists got tighter. The sounds made Harry flinch, but he tried to steel himself to it and trust in Valeria’s word. 

“Stop it, stop it already!” Theo begged and demanded by turns. 

Not once did he use the words  _ ‘please,’ ‘I’m sorry _ ,’ or ‘ _ I was wrong _ .’ If Theo would just apologize and show respect to Valeria, would just  _ submit _ , she might be willing to end it early. Or if Theo looked at Harry and asked for help, even silently, Harry would try to intervene again. But Theo had too much resentment and pride to do either. He was too spoiled. Where was his common sense? He was acting worse than Draco. This wasn’t something worth making a stand about. Theo had brought this punishment on himself. As long as the hex was cancelled by the end of the session, he should be fine except for the uncomfortable memory. Whether he learned anything from it remained to be seen. Harry hoped he did.

When the end finally came, Valeria made the bloated and twisted up Theo apologize—his voice high and thin—to both her and the rest of them for being, in her words, a “silly, disrespectful fool and distraction,” words that she made him repeat four times until he could get them out without stuttering, gasping, or glaring. 

“I hope you learned something tonight,” Valeria said, standing over Theo’s twisted balloon body and looking down at him. “I could’ve helped you be safer and better, be more than you are now, but you didn’t want that.” Theo turned his head away and grimaced resentfully. 

Lips pressing tight, Valeria dug her toe hard into Theo’s side. “Look at me when I talk to you,” she snapped. Coughing, Theo turned back and nodded jerkily. Valeria frowned. “You’re hopeless. Don’t come back next week. I don’t want to see you.” Her wand slashed through the air as she reversed the balloon animal hex. 

Theo’s body deflated with a long farting sound that might’ve been funny in another situation. Shaking out his wrists and flexing his ankles, he grabbed his boots, pulling them back on with lips pressed tight. Theo looked sweaty and pale except for the dark red distemper on his cheekbones. His robes were ripped, but otherwise he was fine. 

Harry sighed as relief coursed through his body. 

Then Theo had to open his mouth again on the way out the door, muttering, “Good. I don’t want to see your ugly face either.” 

Before Harry could even wince, Valeria’s wand flashed through the air and a yellow light shot out and hit Theo. His skin bubbled for a second before reddish purple boils erupted all over his face and hands, breaking open to seep yellow pus. Everyone jerked back in disgust from where Theo stood in the doorway. 

“That was stupid. After all this you still decided to mock me? With your wand in your pocket and your back to me?” She shook her head. “What did you expect to happen next? Where is your Slytherin cunning? Do you feel better now? Do you think I feel worse?”

Cringing, Theo turned on his heel and ran away down the hall.

“He wasted my time and his opportunity.” Valeria looked around at her six remaining students, whittled down from the original ten. “The rest of you better learn from this. I want to help you but for that to happen, you have to let yourself be helped. I’m done with the disrespect. Next time I won’t be this patient or this nice.” Turning on her heel, she swept from the room. 

Theo spent the next day and a half in the hospital wing, coming back even more irritable and with no discernable change of heart. 

Harry had expected everyone to be used to Valeria’s ways by now, but they were all even more wary of her after that. Most of the others would’ve quit if they’d had a choice, but no one wanted to see what she considered mean if Theo’s treatment had been her version of nice. There was no escape from her lessons. Valeria had decided that she wanted to teach them to defend themselves and that was that. 

Flint—who’d cornered the second years to talk—also made it clear that they were all extremely lucky and better be model students for his girlfriend. Theo, Greg, Vincent, and Tracey—the ones who’d been kicked out—suffered from Flint’s irritation when he publicly showed he was unhappy with them during dinner one night. Harry was just grateful that Flint didn’t explain why, allowing the second years to keep up the secrecy of Valeria’s lessons. His snubbing caused the four’s standing in Slytherin to sink as others started excluding them from conversations and teased them more often. Someone pranked the four to talk like chickens for an hour and go around flapping their arms like wings and no one in the common room would open the door for them so they could go to the infirmary and get it fixed. They just had to wait until the spell wore off. Before it had ended, Vincent had eaten several bugs he’d found on the floor.

After that, Draco took Greg and Vincent to apologize to Valeria. She made all three of them help her with some secret but messy favor that ended up with them coming back to the room covered in mud, though Draco was only dirty up to his knees while the other two were plastered from ankle to shoulder. Soon after that, Tracey took Pansy with her to deliver a box of the nicest Honeydukes chocolates that she could afford. Pansy later told them that Valeria had accepted the chocolates, forced Tracey to stop and learn the basic disarming charm Valeria was planning on teaching them next week, and then let Tracey go with a warning to be smarter next time. As far as Harry could tell, Theo didn’t bother making any reparations. Tracey didn’t come back to the lessons, but by apologizing and learning to disarm those who teased her, Valeria and Flint began speaking to her again and her standing rose above Theo’s in the hierarchy, giving her a new sense of confidence as she walked through the Slytherin common room.

On the day Valeria finally taught the rest of them how to disarm opponents, she also made an announcement. “I was trying to avoid it, but last week’s experience with Nott has convinced me that you’re going to have to learn hexes the same way I did, the hard way—by experiencing them first so you can fully understand the suffering involved.” She frowned. “Luckily for you, you won’t be alone in your suffering and I will be here to reverse them and teach you how to cast the counter.” 

Folding her arms behind her back, Valeria looked around at their faces. “Unless things are dire, never use a spell you don’t know how to reverse, especially not in a temper. Making someone else suffer should never be an accident. It is a choice. Decide ahead of time whether it is a choice you want to make and how much suffering is needed to get your point across. There is power in self-control and forethought.” She paced around the room. “Also keep in mind that different people respond differently to physical versus psychological pain. Brute force and zero tolerance isn’t always the best way. Some things take delicacy. I say this because my way may not be yours.” 

She cast a sideways look at Harry and her lips quirked. “My way works very well for me, but Harry seems determined to go another way. I have my doubts, but we’ll have to keep an eye on him to see how well he survives his time here at Hogwarts.” Harry met her eyes steadily and refused to look down. He’d take her lessons to heart and use them to become powerful, but he’d do it in his own way, a way that let him hold his head high and meet his eyes in the mirror without hesitation. 

-oo0oo-

The first weekend in December saw Hufflepuff playing Ravenclaw in an uninspiring Quidditch match. Most people thought the cup would come down to Slytherin and Gryffindor in the end as long as Gryffindor’s Seeker didn’t screw up their next match as badly as the last and as long as Harry didn’t get targeted by an enchanted bludger again. Harry couldn’t wait to prove himself in the game against Ravenclaw in January. He wished it was closer. Harry knew he should be paying attention to how the other Seekers flew, but the game play was predictable and boring. 

A blond boy in Hufflepuff yellow, probably a seventh year, kept jumping up and waving a yellow flag with the name of the Hufflepuff seeker on it every time she flew by, drawing Harry’s attention. Besides that distraction, Harry ended up spending most of the game staring at Hermione. She was sitting with a few members of the Gryffindor team a few rows down from Harry and his friends. One second he’d be looking up, watching a Ravenclaw Chaser fumble a goal, and the next he’d be tracing with his eyes the spiral curls escaping from Hermione’s crookedly-placed wool hat and the swoop of her nose, pink with cold. As soon as he noticed what he was doing he’d yank his eyes back to the flapping yellow flag held by the Hufflepuff boy and then up to the flyers again, but the second he got bored with the game (not hard) he’d find himself staring at Hermione again. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to help it. He wanted his friend back. He missed her, he thought glumly.

Blaise’s elbow jabbed into his side, making him jump and rub at the ache resentfully. “Seriously Harry, stop being a git and just go and talk to her. Apologize or whatever. This has gotten ridiculous. You’re obviously miserable.”

“No ‘m not,” Harry mumbled, crossing his arms and hunching down on the bench. “Shuddup.”

“He’s better off without her,” Vincent said with a curl of his lip. “It was gross how he used to hang out with her all of the time.”

Snorting, Pansy draped herself over Draco’s shoulder, ignoring Draco’s attempt to shrug her off. “Harry, It’s obvious you want to snog her. Go down there, tell her she looks cold, and wrap your scarf around her neck, ending with a peck on the cheek. Call her cute. She’ll think it’s sweet, forgive you, and put us all out of your misery. Maybe even hold your hand if you’re lucky. The pining is getting  _ OLD _ .”

“What?!” Harry wheezed, pressing hands to his chest as he pictured the brush of her curls against his face as his mouth pressed against her soft cheek, thought of being close enough to feel the heat of her blush on his lips. His heart felt like it was jumping out of his chest and his face was on fire. Would her hands be cold or warm against his and would their broom calluses be in the same place?

“Plus it’ll plant a green scarf in the middle of enemy territory and piss the rest of them off.” Millicent said, moving the sucker in her mouth from one cheek to the other with a clack of hard sugar on teeth. “Win-win.”

Draco finally succeeded in dumping the giggling Pansy off his shoulder onto Millicent and turned to Harry. “Here Harry, I know what you should do.” He blinked his eyes in an exaggerated fashion and lifted the edges of his scarf, shaking the green and silver fabric around his face. “Oh Granger, my darling, I’ll oil my skin until it shines and we can dress you up and pretend you’re a niffler.” He raised the pitch of his voice and the volume until everyone turned, making him the center of attention. “Oh, Potter, you’re so shiny! My niffler nose is tingling. I must have you! Kiss me!”

Everyone was looking at them and laughing.  _ Hermione  _ was looking at them. 

She wasn’t laughing. 

Seeing red, Harry lunged at Draco, tackling him and rolling them off the bench to the floorboard. He banged Draco’s head against the floor, feeling angry—so embarrassed and _so_ _angry_. It was easy to feel angry lately. He lifted Draco and slammed him down again. Distantly he noticed the scar on his forehead throbbing like a war drum, urging him on to violence, to hit more and harder. 

Draco wasn’t laughing anymore. Trapped under Harry’s body he punched up, hitting Harry in the mouth and coating his tongue in the sharp taste of blood. A knee caught Harry in the side while he was distracted, winding him. Harry ignored the pain and surged forward, flipping Draco belly-down and putting him into a headlock. He’d learned the technique after being on the receiving end of it from Millicent. He’d just started to squeeze down on Draco’s neck to shut off his breathing when Greg and Vincent ripped him off, dangling him in the air between them. Blaise and Millicent caught Draco’s arms just in time to keep him from sucker punching Harry. The two boys glared at each other, panting. 

“It was just a joke, Potter,” Draco spat out, shaking off the hands restraining him and adjusting his twisted clothing. The cold wind ruffled his white-blond hair and drew attention to the scratch on his forehead as it started trickling blood into one pale eyebrow, staining it dark. “You didn’t have to act like some sort of savage.”

“And you didn’t have to act like a git. I didn’t find it funny.” A muscle jumped in Harry’s jaw as he ground his teeth together, barely biting back the rest of the words he was tempted to say. They wouldn’t help, no matter how much the pulsing in his scar made him want to keep attacking until all his bridges were burned. Harry looked down and away, not looking at his friends or the staring faces surrounding him, especially not looking at where Hermione had been sitting with the Gryffindors, unable to bear whatever expression was on her face right now. 

In all the commotion they missed the Hufflepuff girl catching the Snitch and ending the game, but no one really cared except the ecstatic boy waving the yellow flag. It had been a crap game anyway.

-oo0oo-

That night, Harry couldn’t fall asleep. Tossing and turning, he finally sat up, pushed back the heavy curtains around his bed, and crept out of the room to go and see if emptying his bladder would somehow help. On the way there he ran into Draco in the hall. The other boy eyed him warily, lips tight and expression sour, an expression Harry had often seen at the beginning of the year but not recently. He hadn’t missed it.

Rubbing his hands through his hair, probably making it stand on end, Harry released a gusty sigh and dropped his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry, Draco. I don’t like being teased—especially not about that—but I still shouldn’t’ve attacked you like that. I probably need to work on my temper.” He grimaced and toed the carpet.

“My head still hurts,” Draco said coldly. 

“So does my mouth. You hit hard,” Harry said, swallowing some pride to play to Draco’s ego. “Truce?” Harry tilted his head to the side just as a huge yawn overtook his face, making his eyes squinch shut and his cheeks hurt. “Sorry.” 

Blinking wet eyes, Harry looked over just in time to see Draco echo his yawn, try to say something, and then get trapped yawning again. Draco wiped a hand across his face and shook his head with a frown. He sighed with irritation. “I don’t like fighting with you, Harry.”

“Then why do we do it so much?” Harry asked before his head caught up to his mouth. That had been stupid, saying something to rile Draco back up again.

Luckily Draco didn’t respond the way he’d feared. Instead, huffing a quiet laugh, Draco lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Because that was a lie. Sometimes fighting with you  _ is _ fun. Competing with you is fun, teasing you until your ears go red and steam shoots out is fun…” the smirk melted from his face, pulling down the corners of his eyes and mouth as he murmured, “but being so angry we hurt each other, that’s not fun, at least not for me, not anymore.” He looked away down the dimly lit hall. “I don’t like that part,” he whispered.

“Me neither,” Harry said, twisting the hem of his flannel pajama top around his fingers.

“Good.” Draco shoved a strand of pale hair behind his ear just before his fist unexpectedly darted out and nailed Harry hard in the upper arm. 

“Ouch!” Harry jerked back and rubbed his arm. “What the hell was that for?”

The side of Draco’s mouth turned up in a satisfied expression. “Now I can say I’m sorry too. We’re almost even. You can make the rest of it up to me by protecting me at breakfast from Pansy. I spent half that game today pushing away her octopus arms.”

Harry started to laugh, half at the image of Pansy with eight arms and half at relief that repairing their relationship had been so easy this time. Draco laughed too, maybe equally relieved. 

A little humility and an apology were a small price to pay to keep a friendship. Before Harry could follow that thought down the rabbit hole in his mind to his fractured relationship with a girl with crazy curls, the hard laughter made his bladder cramp sharply and rendered everything else meaningless. “Night Draco, I gotta pee!” Harry yelped as he turned and rushed away down the hall. When he finally returned to bed, sleep came much more easily.

-oo0oo-

The following Tuesday was Valeria’s class again. Her remaining students—Pansy, Millicent, Daphne, Draco, Blaise, and Harry—took to calling the training sessions Viper School. They decided to see how long they could keep people from finding out what was really going on. Being underestimated was a decent strategy at their age. Terence and Miles, who’d happily been replaced as teachers, found the name funny and started teasingly referring to them as Valeria’s Vipers.

At first, everyone seemed better than Harry at casting jinxes and hexes, probably because they’d grown up in the magical world and seen similar spells done by family and friends. Reading between the lines, Valeria seemed to have grown up getting hexed regularly. At least all of them were equally bad at shield charms, which Valeria finally gave up on teaching for now after admitting it was a moderately advanced spell that most adult wizards never mastered, even those employed by the Ministry. 

However, as a target of attack from both inside and outside his house, Harry was uniquely motivated to push himself. After only a few weeks he’d risen to the top of Valeria’s class. He’d gotten really good at disarming people and discovered that he was actually the best out of all of them at picking up new spells quickly. Draco and Pansy knew a wider variety of spells and regularly cast faster (though his speed was improving), but Harry’s spells consistently had the most power and lasted the longest out of anyone in class. He still didn’t want to turn into a bully, but he started moving through the castle with a lot more confidence and made plans to prank several very deserving people. 

In celebration of surviving a month under Valeria, Pansy masterminded a group prank for the Vipers to pull against the second-year Gryffindors. They set off a series of messy spells in the hallway one morning that had everyone distracted and laughing while Theo and Daphne snuck behind the Gryffindors and sprayed them with a potion that dried clear. It went off without a hitch. 

Part two of the prank had Harry waiting an hour for the potion to fully dry and absorb before sneaking up to the Gryffindors (in his invisibility cloak since it was the middle of the day and they didn’t want to risk the same distraction technique) to sprinkle a delayed-release powder on them. He started with Weasley and the other Gryffindor boys, though he only did the lightest dusting on Longbottom since he sort of felt bad for the guy. The Gryffindor girls were walking separately from the boys near a crowd of Ravenclaws, so he only managed to get Brown’s left half and Patil’s right arm. Hermione walked mostly by herself in an open space, so she would’ve been easy to cover with powder if he’d tried. He didn’t. He just… couldn’t, even for something as harmless as a prank. His friends should’ve expected it anyway; he’d made his stance on that particular Gryffindor very clear (even if he still hadn’t managed to apologize to her yet).

Fifteen minutes later in the middle of Potions class, the Gryffindors all turned “Greener than a shamrock!” as the Irish Finnegan loudly exclaimed when the powder finally activated with the potion. They also smelled like freshly crushed pistachios, an unexpected side-effect.

“Except for Hermione, ” Brown grumbled under her breath quietly enough that only Harry heard her beneath the pandemonium as she brushed unhappily at the green polka dots on her robes and cast jealous looks at the still pristine Hermione, who looked equal parts relieved and surprised as she failed to find any traces of green on her body. 

“My poor robes!” Patil wailed, holding up a sleeve that was streaked half-black, half-green.

“At least it’s just your robes. Look at me! Hell, it’s everywhere! I’m the worst of everyone. Except—hey Hermione,  _ you’re _ completely clean. How’d you manage that?” Weasley was holding out locks of his hair and rolling his eyes to try and see if he had any red hair left. He didn’t.

Hopefully none of the Gryffindors noticed how half of the Slytherins turned and glared at Harry during this conversation about Hermione, especially Pansy.

“Most of you seem to have forgotten that this is a Potions classroom and not the showroom at Madame Malkin’s, even though it is an improvement on the usual scarlet,” Professor Snape drawled before taking points from Gryffindor for disrupting the class and insulted them on the color of their potions. He refused to let anyone leave to wash off until they’d finished brewing and turned in their potion for the day. Slytherin’s snickers and snorts filled the classroom during Snape’s entire speech. 

It had been pretty great until Snape decided that Harry looked too happy. “Potter, that choking owl sound you call laughter is disturbing the class. I’d take points except that would punish model students like Mr. Malfoy.” Draco sat up straighter and folded his hands on his desk like a total kiss up. “Even a know-it-all like Miss Granger is liable to mess up her potion listening to that sound, much less whatever horror Mr. Longbottom would brew." Because of course Merlin forbid Harry ever be happy when Snape was around to do something about it. 

Hermione’s face turned bright red while Longbottom paled. He immediately knocked over a bottle, spilling Eye of Newt all over his table and robes. Sighing, Hermione moved over to help him clean up. 

All of the Slytherins had been laughing—Pansy’s laugh was especially loud and came perilously close to sounding like a hyena—but of course Snape never said a negative word about any other Slytherin in Potions except for Harry. If he’d been a Gryffindor, he’d probably have lost house points in every single class just for breathing. Harry scowled. 

Snape stalked over, dark robes billowing, until he loomed over Harry. “Since Mr. Potter’s vanity demands he be the center of attention, he can feel special by staying after class by himself and cleaning up any green smears left in the classroom.”

The Gryffindors exchanged smirks and started wiping the greenest parts of their robes against the nearest surface, trying to make more work for Harry. By the end of class, there were streaks of green all over the floor, seats, and tables on the Gryffindor side of the room. Even a mysterious smudge on the ceiling above Weasley’s chair that Snape took great pleasure in pointing out to Harry. Blaise and Pansy lingered after class and offered to help clean too, but Snape glared and sent them running with a few well-placed threats. 

As Harry scrubbed green off a chair leg with a rag soaked in some noxious potion that made his eyes water behind his glasses, he brooded on how there wasn’t a teacher at Hogwarts that he despised more than Professor Snape; not even Lockhart, who embarrassed him in every class by making Harry costar in dramatic reenactments from his books; not even  _ Quirrell _ , who’d turned out to be possessed by the shade of  _ Voldemort _ . Snape was the  _ absolute worst _ . 

At least Weasley’s ears had stayed a glorious shade of green for three days straight—he might’ve gotten twice as much powder sprinkled on him as everyone else but he was also twice as irritating and deserved it. Even Weasley’s older brothers couldn’t help but tease him by pointing out that red hair and green ears were the perfect look for Christmas.

While Viper school could be fun and interesting, it could also—not surprisingly—be painful and scary. When that happened, everyone turned their ire on Harry and Pansy for bringing them to Valeria’s attention. Millicent probably put him in a headlock at least once a week, Draco nitpicked all his failings and Blaise elbowed him so often he had a permanent bruise on his ribs. Commiserating with Pansy—who suffered through twice as many headlocks as he did plus Daphne’s passive aggressive manipulations—led to them becoming unexpected allies and friends. If you ignored her inexplicable crush on Draco, Pansy was confident, funny, strong-willed, and had a blunt way of speaking that could be refreshing. However, she could also be a jerk—a common failing in most of his friends come to think of it. Harry wasn’t allowed to publicly tell people that Pansy was his friend because she told him flat out that she didn’t want to be bullied for it or have her parents find out and get weird like Draco’s dad. 

Somedays, Harry didn’t know why he even liked Pansy. 

He regularly asked himself why he liked Draco. 

It would be easier if people were straightforward, but who said life was ever easy? If he wanted straightforward, he shouldn’t have become a Slytherin. Blaise was the only friend he had right now who acted relatively straightforward, or at least straightforward for a Slytherin, though Blaise was also his only roommate with parents who weren't political or affiliated with Voldemort in the last war. Blaise could be pretty lighthearted and was loyal and kind to those he liked, even if those people were in other houses (though usually those were limited to pretty girls). Theo was the opposite, never acting straightforward at all, friendly enough when it suited him but never quite loyal, prioritizing his personal safety and status over everyone else, though especially over people in other houses and those who weren’t purebloods. Greg and Vincent were pretty straightforward, but only because they weren’t smart enough not to be. They weren’t really Harry’s friends either, though Harry thought that Greg might be okay if he wasn’t always shrinking himself down to fit inside Vincent’s and Draco’s shadows. As for Draco… well, he was about as straightforward as a muggle paperclip (and would hate the comparison, which made Harry even more fond of it).

-oo0oo-

With the Christmas break starting soon, everyone turned their focus to taking their finals. Having learned several practical and slightly despicable ways to retaliate and defend himself helped Harry travel the castle with confidence. He even let several different Weasleys see him walking all alone a few times, hoping one of them would take the bait and attack the lone Slytherin so Harry could try out some of his more unpleasant jinxes, but so far no luck. They glared, muttered insults, and even went so far as to finger their wands, but nothing that justified Harry casting a Valeria-level spell. With snow falling outside the windows, making flying unpleasant and occasionally unsafe, life became studious and boring. 

Harry tried catching Hermione alone coming out of the library several times, but never succeeded. He missed her friendship so much it felt like a constant ache in his chest. He didn’t know what to do. His pride still resisted apologizing in front of everyone else, but as time wore on, he started wondering more and more if pride was really that important. It was getting to the point where only a public apology would fix things.

In the rare moments when Harry wasn’t busy with studying, freezing at Quidditch practice which kept getting moved due to bad weather, or getting jinxed in Viper school, he and his friends tried to figure out the identity of the heir of Slytherin. They were discussing the rumors one Tuesday night as they waited for Valeria in a second floor hallway outside a girls’ bathroom for a “training exercise in a novel environment,” whatever that meant. Probably something bad for them and amusing for Valeria. Hopefully it would give them an advantage in the dueling club Professor Lockhart had just announced that he’d be starting soon.

Draco glanced around the hallway dramatically to gather their attention before speaking. Harry was about to roll his eyes until he heard Draco’s topic. “I heard from my father that the last time the Chamber of Secrets opened, a girl died.”

Gulping, Millicent rolled her wand between her fingers and whispered uneasily, “Do you think us girls need to worry about the monster more than boys do?”

Draco sighed condescendingly and patted her shoulder. “No, my father says we’re all safe in Slytherin because the monster only kills mu—” his eyes darted over to Harry and he quickly amended what he’d been about to say “— _ muggleborns _ .” 

Harry frowned on principle.

“Good save,” Blase whispered loudly with a snort, causing Draco to twitch with irritation at being called out.

“Anyway,” Draco grumbled, “as I was  _ saying _ , despite the rumors circulating about first-year Halle Harper, there are not actually any muggleborns in Slytherin right now. Harper’s family isn’t well-off, but my father confirmed for me that at least her mother is a pureblood, though he’s not sure about the father. Whatever the case, that means everyone in Slytherin is safe from the monster.”

“And just how does the monster know who’s a muggleborn, half-blood, or pureblood? I’ve never heard of any magical spell or creature that could tell the difference,” Daphne hissed, pressing back against Millicent’s bulk as if to hide herself behind the bigger girl. 

“Because there is no real difference,” Harry said firmly, still determined to convince people to abandon pureblood propaganda, despite the uphill battle.

“Well, Slytherin was a genius, wasn’t he? Maybe he found the one monster who could tell the difference and locked it in the Chamber,” Draco said impatiently, waving away their arguments. “My father would certainly pull me out if there was any real danger, so there has to be some way to tell. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you’re all safe.”

“Or maybe the heir of Slytherin just figures out blood status based on rumor and tells the monster who to attack.” Pansy glanced up and down the empty corridor uneasily. “If they don’t like you, you’re dead.”

“What if the heir gets it wrong?” Daphne asked hesitantly, chewing on her bottom lip and wrapping her arms around herself. “Rumors lie all of the time.”

Draco put a hand on his hip and put his pointy nose in the air. “My father says the monster only attacks muggleborns and my father is never wrong.”

Irritated at the continual mention of Draco’s father—who was wrong about  _ a lot _ of things in Harry’s opinion—Harry scoffed. “Sure, and are you still going to feel that way if the next person is killed instead of just petrified? And if it’s a muggleborn—does that make murdering one of our classmates okay in your mind? I didn’t think you were so cold-hearted. C’mon, Draco, be honest. You don’t really want people dying. Think for yourself!”

“Well, I mean…” Draco trailed off, flustered and confused.

“Maybe those spiders have the right idea,” Daphne said shakily, leaning even harder into Millicent as she gestured to a long line of brown spiders trooping down the hallway and out of the castle through a crack in the windowsill. It was still weird, despite not being the first time Harry had seen the behavior this year. “I don’t want anyone to die. Maybe we should all leave the castle until they catch whatever did it.”

“I don’t want to leave Hogwarts,” Harry blurted, feeling suddenly short of breath. He’d just gotten permission to stay at school over the Christmas holiday. He was supposed to have until the summer before he was forced to go back to the Dursleys and lost permission to use magic again. He slid his hand into the pocket of his robe and felt for the apple he’d stashed there two days ago, squeezing it in his fist and trying to calm down. “We haven’t even been here for four months!”

“But what if one of us accidentally makes the heir mad and he or she sets the monster on us for revenge, not caring that we’re purebloods?” Millicent fretted, clenching and unclenching her hands. 

“My  _ father _ said it  _ won’t _ ,” Draco said.

He was roundly ignored as Millicent continued. “Even just being petrified would be disastrous. That Mandrake Potion they’re making won’t be done until the end of the year. If you miss that much school, you’ll probably have to repeat classes all over again with the younger years. Do you know what that would do to your reputation? No one would respect the idiot who got petrified and had to be held back with the little kids.” She abruptly began pacing, making Daphne stumble as her support disappeared. “People already assume I’m dumb just because I’m a big girl who stands up for herself.”

“No we don’t, Millie,” Pansy said firmly. “The people who matter know your brain’s bigger than your waistline.”

Millicent stopped and threw up her hands in exasperation. “Really, Pansy?”

“What?” Pansy put her hands on her hips. “I was being nice!”

“You know I hate it when you mention my weight.” Millicent glared. “And don’t call me Millie.”

“But you brought it up first,  _ Millie _ .”

“Girls,” Harry broke in before they started firing jinxes. “Focus on the problem. We need to figure out who the heir is, what monster they’re using to petrify people, and put a stop to it so the school stays open.”

“Won’t the teachers do that?” Blaise pointed out. “Hagrid said they already ruled out gorgons.”

“Supposedly,” Harry said belligerent. “It could still be a gorgon.”

Draco sent him a suspicious look, his pale brows twisting up. “Wait, you’re not still hung up on tapestry Medusa are you? I thought you got over that crush last year.”

“What’s this?” Pansy leaned forward with a smirk. “Harry has a crush?”

“On Medusa?” Millicent asked, eyebrows going high.

“No!” Harry snapped, feeling his ears go hot.

Draco smirked. “Even if it is a gorgon—”

“Dubledore thinks it isn’t,” Blaise pointed out.

“—even if,” Draco said snootily, “the chances of it being a beautiful medusa instead of a hideously ugly gorgon are incredibly low. No one’s seen a medusa in centuries, Harry.”

Harry scowled. “Or they have and the person couldn’t tell anyone because they’re now petrified.”

“You’ll be the one petrified if you try to kiss a medusa,” Pansy giggled.

Harry squirmed as embarrassment swamping his mind. “I—I don’t want to kiss tapestry Medusa and—and Terence and Miles think she’s hot...” he trailed off grumpily.

“I doubt they’re dumb enough to want to kiss a medusa though,” Draco scoffed.

“I said I don’t want to kiss her!” Harry shouted, face hot.

“At least we’ll know what it is then, if we find Harry petrified like this,” Blaise pursed his lips and lifted his arms as if embracing a lover, smacking his lips together loudly.

“That’s it,” Harry lunged for Blaise, planning on stuffing his robe in his mouth to stop the teasing. Blaise scrambled down the hallway with a laugh, Harry hot on his heels. “None of you need to worry about petrification because I’m going to kill you first!”

Just as Harry raced past the bathroom door, Valeria stepped out and grabbed him by the back of his robes, jerking him to a stop and making him choke as the collar dug into his neck. “We’re ready.” Letting go of Harry, who staggered to the side with a cough, she held open the door and gestured everyone inside. “C’mon. Inside.”

“Who’s we?” Daphne asked warily as they all trooped past her into the deserted girls bathroom.

“A medusa?” Blaise whispered loudly and wagged his eyebrows, making the girls giggle. Blaise dodged the punch Harry aimed at his arm and widened his teasing grin.

“Oh no,” Millicent groaned, looking around the bathroom and rubbing a hand across her face. “Please say we don’t have to practice in front of Moaning Myrtle. There’s a reason no one’s used this bathroom in fifty years.”

“What?” Harry asked just as a ghostly girl in an old-fashioned school uniform shot out from one of the bathroom stalls. The ghost’s hair was in pigtails and she wore round glasses even bigger than Harry’s.

“Well that’s nice!” the ghost hiccuped before giving a huge pout. “I was going to focus on attacking the boys and leave you girls alone, but now I’ve  _ changed my mind _ !” Her voice went from squeaky to bellowing by the end of her sentence, making Harry’s eyes go wide as he took a step back.

Gritting her teeth, Pansy elbowed Millicent. “Good going, Millie.” Millicent elbowed her back, making Pansy stagger to the side and scowl.

The ghost’s emotions flipped as she drifted over to the boys and suddenly simpered, giving a little giggle. “Hi, I’m Myrtle,” she said in a high-pitched and breathy voice.

“Um, Harry Potter. Nice to meet you,” he said, giving her an awkward smile. She giggled and hid her face in her shoulder, swaying back and forth.

“Everyone line up against the far wall by the sinks,” Valeria ordered crisply. They all shuffled warily into place, still uncertain what they were doing in a bathroom.

“Hey, that faucet has a snake on it. Go Slytherin! Maybe that’s a good sign that tonight won’t be too bad.” Blaise pointed to one of the sinks. “Are we doing teams for this? Because if so I’d love to be with our amazing teacher Valeria and the  _ bella _ Myrtle.” He winked at the ghost and gave her the practiced smile that made the dimple in his cheek come out. Like most girls, Myrtle succumbed to his charm and use of Italian, twirling one of her washed-out pigtails around her finger and giggling.

Millicent and Pansy rolled their eyes in unison. “I can’t believe he’s flirting with a ghost,” Millicent grumbled.

“I can,” Draco snorted, passing his wand from hand to hand nervously.

Valeria cleared her throat. “For tonight’s training, the winner is the person who escapes the bathroom with the most wands. How you get the wands is up to you. You can use the disarming charm, jinxes, fast hands, or headlocks. I don’t recommend using an unforgivable curse, but it’s not like I can stop you either.” 

Myrtle giggled again as everyone went taunt and wary, eyeing each other now as enemies instead of allies. 

Swallowing audibly, Daphne’s face went as pale as the ghostly Myrtle. Sometimes Harry wondered how Daphne hadn’t failed out of the Vipers yet, considering how meek she could be. Then again, she always tried her hardest and gave Valeria respect and obedience, so maybe that was her secret.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the hall.” Valeria strolled to the door, turning around at the last second with a smirk. “Also, you’ll need magic to get out, as I’m locking the door behind me—a little lesson on how wands make it easier to escape and whether not having one makes you powerless. Have fun playing with Myrtle.” The door swung shut behind her, the lock giving a loud snick as it shot into place.

Before anyone could move, Myrtle started cackling. She rose into the air and raised her arms like a symphony conductor. “Ba-dum!” she shouted, cutting down her arms and zipping around the room in excitement. 

In seconds, all of the toilets and sinks exploded, shooting streams of water into the air and drenching them. Myrtle jumped at Millicent, sending a ghostly fist through her face and making the other girl flinch back and slip in a puddle, landing hard on her back with a huge splash that made Millicent drop her wand. Daphne grabbed it and sprinted for the door, but as soon as she cleared the sinks Harry shouted, “ _ Expelliarmus _ !” Both Daphne’s and Millicent’s wands slapped into his hand. He only had a moment to feel smug before the others were upon him, sending him flying backwards into the nearest bathroom stall.

Myrtle’s bathroom became a war zone. The next twenty minutes were a wild blur of crazy spells, flying fists, splashing water, choking headlocks, and ghostly scares. Harry was soaked to the bone, covered in scrapes and bruises, and sporting several jinxes. His bloody nose had leaked worse than the faucets until someone’s sponge jinx had crossed with someone else’s wormy nostril jinx, leaving him with wiggling worms for eyebrows and sponges stuck up his nose, which had helpfully clogged the bleeding and kept it from running back down his throat to choke him. The wormy eyebrows tickled but they also acted like gutters, directing the water to the sides of his face and keeping it out of his eyes, proving themselves to be more useful than not.

Taking a break from the fun to catch his breath, Harry realized that he only needed two more wands. It was time to end this. Scaling to the top of the bathroom stalls while everyone was distracted by Myrtle squirting them in the faces with water over by the sinks, he silently jumped from the top of one stall to the next until he reached the opposite side of the room. Casting a tripping jinx, he knocked Draco onto Pansy. Harry jumped down before they could recover and landed on Draco’s back, squishing him on top of Pansy and making them both forget to guard their wands for a critical moment. Harry ripped them from their wet and slippery fingers and hit them with his strongest jelly legs jinx to keep them from following too quickly. 

Racing forward, keeping an eye on them in the mirror so the spell wouldn’t cancel, he barrelled through Myrtle’s ghostly body when she popped up in front of him, jumped over Daphne’s balloon animal arms when they almost snared his feet in their loops, and shouted, “ _ Alohomora _ !” at the door with all his power, making it unlock and bang back against the wall with the force of his magic. Blaise tried to tackle him from the side but Harry swerved just in time, making Blaise belly-flop onto the floor with a mighty splash that filled Harry’s mouth with water. The coughing slowed Harry down enough that Millicent got a handful of his robes and started to yank him back. Harry found himself being choked by his collar for the second time that night, but it was too little too late. He was too stubborn to let a little choking slow him down. He flung himself through the doorway and out into the hall, landing on his hands and knees at Valeria’s feet with a “Ha!” of triumph. Millicent flattened his legs a second later, making his chin knock against the ground hard enough that he bit his tongue bloody. Something in his foot also snapped, hopefully the celery sprouting between his toes and not a bone.

“All right there, Harry?” Valeria asked with amusement, glancing between him and the people in the bathroom as water flooded out into the hall.

“Feel free to come back and visit any time!” Myrtle called happily, stopping the unpredictable spewing of sinks and toilets. The gurgling sound of water going down the drain filled the air.

Millicent let go of Harry’s legs and crawled the rest of the way out of the bathroom, sitting against the wall panting as the rest of their hexed and bruised cohort followed. “One of these days you’re gonna lose, Potter,” she grumbled.

“Darn straight,” Pansy said as she slowly jiggled her way out of the bathroom with wobbly steps. Harry came up on one elbow and magnanimously cancelled the last bit of his jelly legs jinx that hadn’t dissipated yet instead of making her wait another thirty seconds

Turning to Valeria, Harry couldn’t stop his grin. “That was brilliant!” He passed over the five wands he’d won from his classmates and clambered to his feet, making sure not to put too much pressure on the left food with its crooked stalks of celery sprouting from the laces. 

“Congratulations,” Valeria smiled. “Looks like you had fun.”

“I did!” Harry exclaimed. Winning was just the candle on top of the cake. “Let’s do this again next week!” His words were greeted with a chorus of groans that made him laugh. He had to stop to swallow the blood seeping from his bit tongue so he didn’t choke on it accidentally. Draco unexpectedly kicked the back of Harry’s knee, sending him falling into Millicent, who pulled him into a head-lock. 

“No way are you winning again,” she panted, blocking the elbow he shot at her side. “Next time you’re going down first.”

Harry couldn't stop giggling long enough to get himself loose. Besides, he was too tired and the worms above his eyebrows had started crawling up into his hair, tickling his face. Nevertheless, he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. He hadn’t had so much fun in ages. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my glorious Betas— Iforgottocall and dizzysappedweak! In Chapter 7 we see the Dueling Club and Harry dueling Ron with unexpected results, the Christmas Holidays and some surprise gifts, Slytherin’s next Quidditch match, and finally a conversation between Harry and Hermione—a short conversation, but it finally gets the ball rolling on this apology thing. Phew!


	7. Second Year - Dueling Club and Christmas Holidays

Harry’s good mood carried over to the Dueling Club two evenings later. They’d broken the meetings up by age, so tonight was limited to only interested second years. Looking around at the other houses, Harry didn’t see anyone who looked particularly challenging.

“Welcome to the Hogwarts Dueling Club!” Professor Lockhart strode into the room with a sunshine yellow half-cape tied over robes of sky blue. The careful fall of his golden hair looked like he’d spent even more time on it than usual, which was really saying something. “Led by me, your beloved Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, the famously dashing Gilderoy Lockhart!” Pausing, he sent around a magically-enhanced smile that made most of the girls sigh in unison. 

_Idiots_ , Harry thought, rolling his eyes. 

Lockhart gestured to the side with a flourish. “As well as someone else you all know—Potions Professor Severus Snape!” A scowling Professor Snape stalked into the room, black robes billowing like a storm cloud come to dampen Harry’s good mood. He didn’t look too happy to be there. Harry wished he’d just turn around and leave.

Everyone else in Slytherin seemed excited to see Snape. Probably because he always showed favoritism to Slytherins—unless their name happened to be Harry Potter. Harry’s heart dropped to his knees as Snape’s eyes picked him out from the crowd, pausing to raise a judgemental eyebrow as if asking what a loser like Harry was doing at a dueling club before looking him up and down, curling his lip, and turning away dismissively. Lockhart and Snape were the two professors Harry disliked the most. Dueling had sounded fun, but with those two in charge he was more likely to end up as the class clown and punching bag. 

Harry’s groan was echoed by the person on his left, who turned out to be Ron Weasley. He couldn’t believe he was exchanging commiserating looks with Weasley of all people. Then again, Snape treated the Gryffindors almost as badly as he did Harry and everyone suffered under Lockhart. 

Past Weasley, Harry saw Hermione nervously fingering her wand. He thought about going over and saying something to bolster her confidence, but he didn’t know where to even start. He wished he could exchange a commiserating glance with her too, but despite his hopeful stare she didn’t look over, keeping her eyes glued on Lockhart. 

_Stupid Lockhart._

Professors Lockhart and Snape started with an exhibition match, which just humiliated Lockhart when Snape disarmed him in seconds and sent him toppling off the dueling platform with his very first spell. Snape looked disgusted and pursed his lips, probably to hold back a biting comment. 

Recovering quickly, Lockhart jumped to his feet and turned back to the students with his stage smile firmly in place. “I let him do that, of course. Now, look up everyone.” 

Glancing up, Harry saw a field of floating green sprigs with rounded leaves and pale blue berries bobbing overhead. They slowly descended from the ceiling to hover over the students’ heads. Mistletoe! Stomach lurching up into his throat, he glanced over sharply towards Hermione, only to see her standing next to Greg under a sprig, looking up with a pale, sickly expression on her face. 

“No!” Harry gasped, his voice lost beneath the pandemonium that filled the room. 

“Ha ha! Now students, calm down!” Lockhart put his hands on his hips and leaned back. While they’d been distracted he’d retrieved his wand from Snape. “This is not Valentine's day after all, it is _Dueling Club_!” He struck a new pose, arm in the air. “The plants you see are not mistletoe, but instead its much crueler cousin, mistleFOE!” He lunged, fencing an invisible opponent for a moment before standing up again, one hand tucked behind his back. 

“Your Professor Sprout suggested we use it after hearing about how I fought through an entire forest full of mistlefoe to rescue six orphans from a colony of deadly and treacherous acromantulas. She insisted on overseeing the setup personally and I couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings by saying no.” He brushed a lock of hair off his forehead and sent around a knowing, close-mouthed smile. The girls sighed loudly again. 

“Now, the plants will pelt you with berries until you find someone to duel. They won’t stop attacking until you are fighting someone else. Your task is to disarm your opponent with the new spell I just demonstrated with Professor Snape and then switch to a new opponent. The pressure of the situation should help you learn the disarming spell quickly. Good luck!” He strutted to the windows and twirled around, his yellow and blue robes reflecting like a mirror in the dark glass. “Professor Snape, if you’d like to do the honors.” 

Lips pursing, Snape whisked his wand through the air and spoke a single word, sending up a cone of bright light that exploded into a glitter shower that released the stasis spell on the plants. 

Within seconds the room had filled with the zip and splatter of shooting berries, which stung when they hit you on the arm and arse and made the floor slippery.

Even with the distractions, Harry and his fellow Vipers dominated in every duel (having been taught the disarming spell weeks ago by Valeria), so much so that Theo couldn’t hide his jealousy nor Weasley his frustration. Lockhart just stood and admired his own reflection in the dark window while everyone dueled, not even noticing the Slytherins decimating the competition. 

Hermione was doing alright from what Harry could tell until she went up against Millicent and started celebrating too early at making Millicent drop her wand, only to find herself charged at and taken down by a classic Millicent headlock seconds later. Nowhere in the rules had Lockhart stipulated magical attacks only (as done in official dueling matches according to Pansy). It had been careless. Lucky for Millicent, though.

Wincing in sympathy as Hermione’s face went bright red, Harry almost got hit by a slug vomiting curse cast by Weasley, barely dodging the streak of magic in time. Instead, the jinx overshot him and hit a Ravenclaw girl standing next to Snape, making her spew slugs at Snape’s feet. Harry was only sorry that the girl hadn’t aimed a little higher and actually hit Snape straight on. The Professor jumped back, face screwed up in disgust, and tripped on someone’s dropped wand before skidding on a squashed mistlefoe berry, windmilling his arms before barely catching himself against the wall, his dark hair covering his downturned face and giving him the appearance of a dirty mop. Before he could straighten, a barrage of berries splattered against his head and neck, sticking in his hair and dangling like troll snot.

Snickering, Harry looked back at Weasley, whose lips were trembling violently with suppressed glee. Meeting each other's eyes, they both broke down laughing, for a moment in complete charity with each other. Snape tossed back his hair with a ferocious scowl and took a step away from the wall, only to be pelted by more berries, which slid down his face leaving behind red welts and blue stripes. Snape looked like he’d stopped breathing with rage, his face going red as he stomped his feet, beat his hands in the air, and turned in a circle like a toddler. 

“L—Look!” Harry’s belly hurt from laughing so hard. Wheezing, Weasley put a hand on Harry’s shoulder to keep himself from falling over. Harry braced him, throwing an arm over Weasley’s shoulder as his eyes teared up with laughter at Snape’s temper tantrum.

“ _Finite incantatem_!” Snape shouted with a snarl, pointing his wand at the ceiling and making the mistlefoe and shooting berries ripple in place before disappearing, though the berries splattered all over the students, floors, and walls remained behind.

Winded and cheeks hurting from smiling so widely, Harry looked over at Weasley and realized that they were draped across each other like—like they were _friends_ or something. Eyes widening, Weasley’s smile faltered as he noticed the same thing. Laughter cutting off, they jumped apart and looked away uncomfortably, loudly clearing their throats and tugging straight their robes as they remembered that they didn’t actually like each other, that they actually disliked each other quite a lot. It was weird. 

Harry wished that that had been the only weird thing to happen that night. Instead, he discovered that talking to snakes—known as Parseltongue—was _not_ a normal wizarding gift and was in fact associated with the _darkest_ of wizards and witches. Stupid Snape for suggesting the Snake Summoning Charm to Draco and stupid Draco for casting it at Harry. How was Harry to know that his conversation with the snake sounded like hissing to everyone else? How was he to know it would make everyone freak out? He had only been trying to save that stupid Hufflepuff, Justin Finch-Fletchley, who’d run off as if Harry had set the snake on him on purpose instead of telling it to leave him alone.

“Finch-Fletchley is a mudblood. Mudbloods are all idiots,” Theo opined from his bed where he flipped through a magazine while Harry paced their room later that night and ranted to anyone who’d listen.

“Shut up, Theo,” Harry and Blaise said in unison, then smirked at each other and bumped fists in passing. 

Huffing, Theo shut his bed curtains with a snap.

Thank goodness Blaise had returned to normal. Right after finding out Harry spoke Parseltongue, he’d had gotten a little spooked and shrunk back from Harry, acting skittish as if Harry was about to attack him or suddenly demand Blaise pledge himself to the Dark side and sabotage Blaise’s plan of getting through all seven years of school with his family’s grey and neutral reputation intact. 

Although Blaise had been the one to explain Parseltongue’s bad reputation, Draco had been happy to expand upon it with gruesome historical details of mass-murdering, Muggle-hating, Parseltongue-speaking Dark Lords of the past. Uneasy, Harry had listened to Draco listing the Dark Lords’ most loathsome actions and fearsome snake pets, which included armies of small but deadly elemental adders and rare and terrifying giant snakes like bobbing fangfaces, basilisks, and blue titanoboas, the mere threat of which had made powerful wizards of the past surrender and beg for the quick death of a Killing Curse. Harry was pretty sure that holding a conversation with any of those snakes would give him nightmares for the rest of his life. Listening to Draco was giving him the creeps.

“Are you sure those are even real snakes?” Blaise interrupted skeptically, tossing his dirty socks onto the floor and kneeling down next to his trunk to find some clean ones. “I’ve never even heard of any of those but the elemental adder. What does a blue titanoboa even look like?”

Draco crossed his arms and stuck out his lower lip, obviously annoyed at being questioned. “A big blue snake, obviously, sort of like a boa, but bigger.” When he lifted his chin and forced himself to give a thin-lipped smile—a sign he didn’t have more information but didn’t want to admit it—Harry’s eyes narrowed, doubt creeping into his mind for the first time. 

“And the basilisk and fangface?” Blaise didn’t bother raising his head from his trunk, putting his head and shoulders inside as he continued his search, making his voice muffled. “Are they big black snakes? Brown? Or blue too?” He popped out of the trunk with a black and navy sock in either hand. “Oh no, how scary,” he deadpanned, rolling his eyes at Draco. “You and your stupid Dark Lord stories. Do you really expect us to believe in something with a stupid name like bobbing fangface? This is our cozy dungeon bedroom, not some flickering campfire in the middle of the Forbidden Forest.” 

Blaise turned on his knees. “Seriously Harry, don’t you know that you’re the only one who falls for his tall tales anymore? Stop letting him scare you. It’s embarrassing.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Harry lied, looking away and wiping a hand across his nose.

“Well, at least my socks match, Zabini,” Draco snapped, reverting to surnames to show his displeasure at Blaise for spoiling his fun. Huffing, he flopped over in bed to face the opposite wall with a parting shot of, “And at least I’m not a Parseltongue like Potter, whom everyone now expects to go on a murder spree through the castle.”

Scowling, Harry remembered why he was mad all over again. He returned to his pacing and grumbling, not caring that no one but Blaise and maybe Greg seemed to be listening to him anymore. Speaking to snakes didn’t suddenly make him evil! He was the same as he’d always been. It was so stupid! 

-oo0oo-

The following morning on entering the Great Hall for breakfast, the first student to see Harry screamed, broke down in tears, and ran out through the exit on the other side of the room. That set the tone for his day. Herbology was cancelled because of a blizzard and then Hagrid randomly strode into the hall with a dead rooster just as news arrived of both Justin Finch-Fletchley—the stupid Hufflepuff he’d saved from the snake the night before—and Nearly Headless Nick—Gryffindor’s house ghost—being petrified. Even a gorgon couldn’t petrify a ghost, so Harry had to admit that Dumbledore and Hagrid were right as he was sent back to square one when it came to figuring out the monster’s identity. 

When Harry moved around the castle, the other students whispered and stared more than ever. Even the teachers gave him uneasy and suspicious looks and started tailing him through the halls as if to make sure he didn’t attack someone else. Crowded corridors suddenly became easy to walk through as students pressed back against the walls to let him pass. People were scared he’d petrify or kill them next. 

Draco thought it was great and was eager to take advantage, but Harry _hated_ it. He didn’t want to be feared, he wanted to be loved—well, to be respected, at least, and hopefully known and trusted. The whole thing was sizzling dragon dung is what it was. 

The school emptying for the Christmas holidays couldn’t happen soon enough. 

On the morning that the Hogwarts Express was scheduled to take most of the students home, Harry decided to skip breakfast and avoid the chaos of the Great Hall and all the people gushing about seeing their families again. Instead, he took several random turns in the dungeon corridors, letting himself get lost as he stumbled upon strange old statues and paintings that looked like they’d been tossed down here and forgotten centuries ago. Walking past a painting of a candelabra decorated with the hanging bodies of green ducks and red cardinals (perhaps a Christmas decoration in a hunting lodge?) he turned a corner and came face to face with a floor to ceiling window looking out over an underwater forest filled with odd plants, darting fish, and menacing crustaceans.

Silhouetted against the window stood a small dark-skinned girl with a shaved head and baggy robes. A ropey scar, pale with age, curved up her neck and behind her ear. She was hunched over, arms wrapped around her sides and head drooping as if it was too heavy to keep up, staring blankly out at the darkest depths of the lake with such a hopeless look upon her face that Harry felt moved to say something. “Can I help?”

Before his first word ended the girl’s spine snapped straight and her expression blanked, making her seem suddenly older and much more menacing. She shifted to face him with her wand pointed straight at his chest before cutting it down just as suddenly. He hadn’t even seen her drawing the wand. “Oh, hello Harry. Did you need something?”

Harry blinked, shocked to realize that the girl he’d stumbled upon was _Valeria_. She’d cut her several inches of curls down to a bit of brown shadow and put on overly large formal-looking robes in black with a high collar and draping sleeves so only her face and fingertips showed. He wondered if he’d only imagined the bleak look upon her face. His question seemed foolish now. 

Valeria stared at him, waiting for an answer. “No… I was just exploring the dungeons to avoid all of the people getting ready for the train.” He searched her face, but there was no weakness left, just cool confidence. Maybe he had imagined it. “Are you looking forward to going home?”

“Most people are.” She looked back out at the underwater forest. He would’ve taken her statement at face value if he hadn’t seen her minute flinch before she’d turned away. 

“Do you have anything fun planned with your family?” It was the first time he’d seen a chink in her armor outside of when Flint had blindsided her by asking her out. He was a Slytherin. He couldn’t help but press to see what else he could learn. He was also her friend. If he knew what was wrong maybe he’d also know how to help.

“They always have fun. Me…” she trailed off and tugged at the cuffs of her robes, making sure they covered her to the first knuckle. Something about the action made him uneasy.

“You could ask to stay,” Harry suggested carefully.

“No, I really couldn’t. I should go. I can’t afford the consequences of missing the train.” A haunted look flickered through her eyes, as if she was remembering something bad before she ruthlessly suppressed it. Lifting her chin, she turned to go. 

It felt wrong. Valeria shouldn’t be scared of anything. She was the scary one, wasn’t she...? 

Like being hit unexpectedly by a Bludger, Harry put the obvious clues together and realized that she was terrified of her family. He recognized that look now, the look of someone bracing themselves for pain while they were at home. It had to be really bad for someone like Valeria to be scared. It was probably even worse than what he had to put up with. Everything was _more_ in the wizarding world, both more wonderful and more evil. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to help her. He couldn’t even help himself when it came to having a horrible family. His chest hurt and the inside of his nose stung. 

Shoving his hands into his robe pockets as Valeria walked away at a steady pace, her mask of indifference firmly in place, he felt something round knock against his fingers, a piece of fruit he’d stuffed in there yesterday after the last one had gone bad. “Wait, Valeria!” Rushing forward, Harry pulled it out of his pocket and thrust it into her hands. “Merry Christmas and thanks. Thanks for everything. You’ve been really great to me this year so… thanks.” He blew out his breath, frustrated that he couldn’t think of anything better to say or do.

“An orange?” She looked down at it, rolling it from hand to hand as the corner of her mouth slowly quirked up in surprise and what he really hoped was pleasure and not derision. “Are you trying to be Nicholas of Myra and gift me a golden ball to dower me and save me from slavery like in the story of the three sisters? If so, you should’ve put the orange in my stocking.”

“I—I’m sorry I didn’t think ahead to get you something better. You deserve to be happy at Christmas and I just wanted to cheer you up.” Harry winced and looked down, feeling stupid and powerless. Bitterness coated his tongue.

From the corner of his eye he saw Valeria’s hand come up and hesitate in mid-air for a moment before darting out and touching his shoulder more gently than snow settling onto a pine. When she spoke, it was just as soft and delicate. “And so you did. Thank you, Harry.” Unwilling to say anything for fear of breaking the mood, Harry just met her eyes and smiled.

Cradling the orange to her chest, a warm pop of color against the black of her robes and brown of her skin, she squared her shoulders and left for the train. Harry spent a few more minutes watching fish dart through the floating plants before leaving to continue his dungeon explorations.

-oo0oo-

It came out at the very last minute that Draco was also staying at school over the holidays because his parents were going on a trip without him. He took great pains to make sure that everyone understood that it wasn’t a vacation but work (though Harry had been led to believe that Draco’s parents technically didn’t work because they were obscenely rich) and that his parents felt absolutely devastated to not see him but that it just couldn’t be helped. Even though no one asked any questions, Draco kept flourishing the supposedly tear-stained letter from his mother as proof. 

Once the majority of students had disappeared on the train back to London, Draco abruptly stopped talking about it. Instead, he tried to cheer himself and Harry up with broom flights, snowball fights, games of wizard chess, breaking into the trunks of people too stupid to secure them well, and (after a lot of arm-twisting) having Harry unexpectedly jump out at students they really didn’t like to send them fleeing in terror. That last one was only funny the first couple of times. After that it was just sad. They also spent some time each day searching the back stacks of the library for clues as to what the monster in the Chamber of Secrets could be, but they didn’t have any luck, though Draco did find a picture of a forty-foot long titanoboa to show to Blaise as proof (though it looked more brownish-purple than blue in the illustration).

On Christmas Eve, Harry won a set of pristine bookmarks illustrated with the four founders off of a Ravenclaw too bored to be scared of him during a game of exploding snap. Godric Gryffindor had been drawn as a brawny man with curly brown hair in scarlet and gold robes swishing a sword in one hand and a wand in the other. The curls made Harry miss Hermione fiercely. 

Salazar Slytherin’s card arched one dark brow at Harry and shook his head in disappointment, fingering the emerald shaped S on his locket as if asking why Harry was still being such a dunderhead about apologizing. Harry didn’t have a good answer for him, though Helga Hufflepuff’s encouraging smile as she gestured with her silver cup got him up on his feet and striding out of the room to do something about it, even though he didn’t know what. The Eagle shaped diadem glittering on Rowena Ravenclaw’s brow with its outspread wings decorated in jewels gave him an idea, so he turned and made for the Owlery. 

Pulling a scrap of blank paper out of his robes, Harry folded the bookmarks inside and—before he could second guess himself—wrote _Merry Christmas to Hermione Granger_ on the outside. Tying the paper shut with a red string he found hanging over a peg and then attaching it to Hedwig’s leg, he sent the present winging away. Hedwig’s flapping white wings quickly disappeared from sight as she soared between white snow and the winter pale sky. 

Grinning, Harry felt like he’d done something right for the first time in months! 

It was only as he turned to go back to the castle that he realized that he’d forgotten to write _from Harry Potter_ or _I’m sorry_ or _Let’s be friends again_. In fact, there was no way for her to know that it was from him at all. She’d probably think it was from one of the Gryffindors, maybe even from Weasley. Dropping to his heels, Harry put his head in his hands and groaned. The sharp face of Salazar Slytherin popped into his mind, wondering how such a dunderhead ever got sorted into his house. 

After a few minutes the cold became stronger than his need to brood and sent him plodding back into the warmth of the castle. It could be worse, he told himself. He’d get another chance after the holidays. Besides, at least he was still at Hogwarts. He could’ve been spending the Christmas holidays with the Dursleys like when he’d been ten, locked in with nothing to mark the occasion after he’d finished cooking their dinner but the smells drifting beneath the gap of the door, subsisting on water from the bathroom faucet, the can of cold peas he’d been expected to make last for all three meals, and the few scraps of food scraped from their dirty plates before he did the dishes (usually only Aunt Petunia’s miniscule portions since Dudley and Uncle Vernon always licked their plates clean). 

Not that a person could starve in two weeks. Harry had made sure to find that out with his first school library visit as a child. It took three to five weeks before organ failure really set in and a person could potentially go up to two months before dying as long as they had water. Magic probably extended that even further. Yes, being at the Dursley’s would’ve been worse. 

After putting things into perspective, Harry found his mood taking an upswing, especially when he entered the Great Hall to hear festive music playing from a Wizarding Wireless set on one of the tables and smelled the hot chocolate and apple cider in the air. Draco, with a gingerbread wizard hanging out of his mouth, caught Harry’s eye and imperiously waved him over to the table where he was holding court with the other Slytherins staying for the holidays. All in all, a lot of things could’ve been worse.

-oo0oo-

On Christmas morning Harry woke up and—realizing he didn’t have any responsibilities—promptly went back to his dream of playing Quidditch with his mum and dad while flying around on giant forks and chasing plates of treacle tart. When he finally got up an hour later, Draco had already disappeared to floo call his parents so Harry had the dorm room to himself. A huge box of treats from Draco’s mum sat abandoned on Draco’s bed along with a pile of smaller boxes. The treat box was four times the size of the ones Draco’s mum usually mailed him every month. 

Harry really hoped the floo call went well because Draco hadn’t been good at hiding his hurt and shock at being unexpectedly abandoned at school over the holidays. Despite how much Draco constantly talked about his absolutely amazing father, Harry could tell that he was starting to become disillusioned about his father being the perfect, well, _father_. Every time the man fell short or wrote him something that turned out to be questionable, a bit of Draco’s foundation shattered, leading to Draco disappearing for a while only to return with red-rimmed eyes and brittle excuses. Harry felt angry at Mr. Malfoy and bad for Draco, but didn’t know what to say. Draco would get mean if he even suspected that Harry was pitying him. Hopefully Draco’s parents would say the right thing to jolly Draco into a better mood and soothe his feelings.

When he got back from using the loo and went to his trunk to get clean clothes, Harry was happily surprised to find a small stack of presents waiting for him. He would’ve gotten up earlier if he’d known there’d be this many presents! He’d ordered all of his friends treats from an owl-order catalogue left in the common room, but hadn’t taken out enough money before school started to get anything really special for anyone. He hoped to do better next year.

There were bits and bobs and treats from his friends and even a mystery gift without a tag, though the wrapping job looked much more neat and precise than the wrapping on the invisibility cloak he’d received last year, making him think it wasn’t another gift from the Headmaster. Hagrid sent him rock-hard cookies and an inkwell decorated with dragon scales shed by Norbert. Valeria sent him a book titled _Plants That Probably Won’t Kill You and Probably Will Kill Them_. The book cover had a picture of an orange fruit shaped like a teardrop and a wine glass full of a clump of slimy-looking red weeds. Just touching it made his fingers tingle unpleasantly, so Harry slipped it into his trunk using the edge of his scarf and decided to figure out how to read it comfortably later.

Harry wanted to go slow and savor the opening of each present, but he was just a twelve-year-old boy after all. He ripped the ribbons and paper off with excited abandon, flinging them to the side to be cleaned up later. He received toys from Zonko’s and treats from Honeydukes from his friends and students wishing to curry favor with him in Slytherin. Blaise gave him a book about famous Seekers and a hand-made gift certificate _“Good for One Free Non-Sucky Haircut_ ” decorated with a large picture of a boy with glasses in a Father Christmas hat snogging a medusa in a red and gold Gryffindor scarf. Cheeks blazing with heat, Harry crumpled up the card and tossed it into the fire, making sure the picture burned all the way through so Draco wouldn’t see any hints of it on returning and say something obnoxious. The toothpick from the Dursleys barely fazed him after that. He just chucked it into the fire to join the card.

He’d intended to save the mystery present for last, but he needed a distraction from plotting how to KILL BLAISE when he saw him again so he grabbed it next. There wasn’t a name or card inside either, just a package of Toothflossing Stringmints and a small plain tin barely bigger than the palm of his hand. There was nothing remarkable about the tin except the product name written in plain script on the lid: _Your Friend in Need_. Most people probably wouldn’t spare it a second glance. It was certainly much less flamboyant than the other toys currently scattered around him. Curious, hoping for a treat instead of a trick, Harry took a deep breath and opened the lid. 

Inside, he found dozens upon dozens of miniature bags about the size of his thumbnail. Holding one up in front of his face, he saw that it was full of sprinkles in various shades of brown. He was still confused. A paper inside the lid of the tin explained that what he’d thought were sprinkles were actually little nuts, dried fruit, and chocolates. The waterproof bags of trail mix had each been shrunk down, packed into a tin magically deeper on the inside than the outside, and preserved with stasis charms to last ten years before going rancid for those adventurous wizards and witches who preferred not to stop for lunch while exploring mountains, jungles, caves, and haunted tombs. 

It was brilliant!

Biting his lip hard to push past the hot feeling radiating through his chest, Harry looked around his empty room in vain for the identity of the gifter. It would be a lot easier to carry this around than the bulky fruit and hard rolls he usually stashed in his trunk, school bag, and robe pockets. It was an embarrassing habit, but one he hadn’t been able to break. He’d done his best to hide the hoarding, but someone had obviously noticed. That thought made his belly feel tight so he decided not to worry about it. It was a good gift. That’s all that mattered. Besides, the fruit hidden under his bed was starting to rot, though not so much that it’d make him more than a little sick, but with these he could probably throw those out without too much worry. 

Harry tore open the tiny corner of one bag, which made it enlarge to the size of his outstretched hand. He spilled out nuts, fruit, and colorful chocolates into his hand and popped them into his mouth. They tasted good—salty-sweet and filling. Folding down the top of the bag to save the rest for later, he put it on his bedside table and happily took out a handful of the little trail mix bags, tucking them into all of his things and replacing a little more than half of his old food stashes. He wasn’t quite prepared to get rid of all of them just yet. 

Even after putting a bag in every item he owned, the box was still more than three quarters full. He’d be able to stash them all over the Dursley’s house this summer for emergencies. It was a good feeling. Stuffing the leg of a chocolate frog from Greg into his mouth, Harry returned to opening the rest of his presents and then left to go find Draco and attend the group festivities taking place in the Great Hall. By the time he went to bed that night, his belly was overly-full and his cheeks hurt from all the smiling.

The day after Christmas, Flint sent both Harry and Draco letters reminding them of the Quidditch game against Ravenclaw in exactly one month and laying out a list of training exercises to complete before Slytherin’s next official practice. They would’ve practiced anyway, but Valeria sent a scary missive following up on Flint’s—warning them against getting fat and lazy on Christmas pudding. It made them both turn down seconds on dessert after reading it, just in case she had spies in the castle reporting back to her. Besides, Harry was determined to redeem himself and catch the Snitch in the next game. The two friends spent the final week of break on their brooms as often as the weather would allow and the rest of the time playing games and looking up gruesome monsters and famous wizards in the library. 

All-in-all, it was one of the best Christmas holidays Harry could remember.

-oo0oo-

Most everyone returned to school after the holiday in good spirits except for when they saw Harry. Unfortunately, the rumors about him being the Heir of Slytherin hadn’t died out. In fact, they seemed to be gaining strength as the days ticked by. People watched him with fear, resentment, and—in the case of a few awful people who were vocal about their disdain for Muggles—fascination. It was creepy and uncomfortable. He didn’t like it. 

Seventh-year William Manic—who was on probation after being discovered torturing the animals in Care of Magical Creatures and who’d always been open about thinking it a shame that Harry hadn’t died instead of the Dark Lord—greeted him with smiles now and tried to invite Harry to hang out with him and his friends, offering with a wink to help him with any of his “ _special projects_.” Harry had started hiding behind the bulk of Greg and Vincent when he saw Manic coming.

Halle Harper—who he’d helped with her first-year defense homework a time or two—seemed scared of him now. The one time he tried to say hello after Christmas the blood had drained from her face and she’d frozen as if already petrified. When Harry had gotten frustrated and hurt, turning to leave, she’d whispered brokenly after him, “I’m not muggleborn. I promise I’m not. I’m half-blood.” Then she’d run away and avoided him ever since. It was disheartening.

Tyrant, despot, and dictator were all titles Harry had no interest in, especially when it was all based on rumors and lies. A house of cards wouldn’t stay standing for long. Draco kept trying to convince Harry to use his reputation to consolidate his power over the school and make himself some kind of king, but Draco still didn’t understand that Harry didn’t want power that came primarily from fear. Harry needed— _wanted_ —a stronger foundation, one based on respect and admiration. 

Valeria was much more subdued than usual upon her return, not even drawing her wand on him when he startled her, just freezing in place and taking a quivery little gulp before blinking and giving him a weak glare, walking away slowly. In fact, for the first week back she moved as if she was older than Dumbledore and her joints wouldn’t stop aching. He didn’t like it. Not at all. 

However, Harry didn’t think asking about it would help. She probably wouldn’t tell him the truth about what was wrong and even if she did, there wasn’t anything he could actually do about it. The only thing he could do was be supportive. He dragged his friends into sitting by her at meals whenever Flint was busy politicking elsewhere at the table so she wouldn’t be alone with her memories and made sure no one gave her any guff during Viper school, snapping at Draco and Pansy when they started to drag their feet or get pouty. Whenever Valeria’s eyes got too unfocused with dark thoughts, Harry found an excuse to shove Flint in her direction. Luckily it seemed to work, as she slowly returned to her normal self as the days went on and regained her usual arrogance and deadpan sense of humor.

At least Hermione returned from the break looking better. She moved around the castle with renewed energy, wiggling in her chair with more excitement than ever when she knew an answer in class and throwing herself into making new friends. She started joining in again on casual weekend Quidditch games, though never ones where Harry was a player. He’d also noticed her attending several of the mixed house study groups she’d turned her nose up at before and hanging out with the Weasley twins outside of class. 

In fact, Harry was pretty sure she’d helped the twins with the recent prank in the northeast courtyard that had gotten students from all four houses. A snowball fight had started and just when it hit its peak the snow had turned into custard, leaving everyone coated in gobs of the stuff and smelling strongly of vanilla, with the pristine twins leaning out of an open window and cackling down at everyone, especially when a stampede of animals had descended seconds later. Ron Weasley’s ugly little rat had been in heaven along with half the pets in the castle, who’d tried to lick everyone to death to get at the custard on their robes. It would be a few days before Harry could look Millicent’s cat in the eye after the way it had tried to assault him. He’d cracked the edge of his glasses trying to scramble away from it all. Blaise—once he’d stopped flinging around custard and laughing—claimed that he’d seen Hermione throw the snowballs that started the fight before she’d ducked through a doorway back into the castle. 

Although all of that was distracting, Harry kept most of his focus on preparing for the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game set for the second weekend in January. In their final practice before the game, Flint had pulled Harry and Draco aside and taught them a better bum sticking charm and several weather-repelling and warming charms Harry hadn’t even known existed, despite specifically asking Miles and Terence for help before the last game. 

“Why didn’t you teach us these before?” Draco asked testily, kneeling down and shoving his arm into a snowbank to test his charmwork. “We were miserable up there.”

“Slytherin tradition,” Flint said. “A player’s first game should be hard. Shows the rest of the team what you’re made of. Weather charms can only do so much in a storm like that and now you won’t expect to always be comfortable. Now you know you can play without ‘em. ‘Sides, it’s a common trick to cancel another player’s weather and warming charms. Throws them off their game. Illegal, but dead useful as long as you know how to hide your wand. I saw one of the Weasley twins doing it to Harry while the other was distracting him.”

“What?” Harry felt his eyes go wide as he searched his memories. Had some of the devastation caused by their words been confused with failing charm work? Had the burning sensation beneath his skin that he’d blamed on internal hurt actually been external frostbite?

“Sodding Weasleys,” Draco muttered.

“Not that Harry had strong weather charms on to begin with, but it wouldn’t have mattered considering he’d already let the beaters inside his mental defenses, a mistake I’m sure he won’t be repeating.” Flint gave Harry a hard look that had Harry swallowing hard and lifting his chin.

Draco stood up and shook the snow off his arm, checking how damp the fabric was and completely missing the by-play between Flint and Harry. “And the stronger sticking charm?”

“That one’s for Harry so he doesn’t fall off his broom again,” Flint said laconically.

“I’m not going to fall off my broom,” Harry snapped, unable to help himself.

“Good. Don’t.” Flint cocked his head and smirked. “Unless it helps you catch the Snitch. Better to know the charm and not use it than need it and not know it. I once saw a sticking charm cast on an opposing Seeker’s hands just as he went into a dive—kept him from catching the Snitch. Good trick.” Flint taught them how to cancel the spells on themselves, then made them practice cancelling them off each other with wand movements that could be hidden from a referee. Only when he was satisfied that they wouldn't drop their wands midair or get caught casting and cost the team a penalty did he dismiss them to go and shower.

-oo0oo-

Game day arrived with clear skies and crisp air, a marked contrast to Harry’s last game. Blaise had insisted on giving Harry the promised “Non-Sucky Haircut” the night before so he’d look handsome during the game. Harry didn’t really care how he looked, but if a little less hair made him a little more aerodynamic, he’d take it.

At breakfast he felt his stomach revolting at the thought of eating anything. He sat huddled over a glass of water, staring at it sightlessly. Today’s game had to go better than the last one. It just had to.

His glasses were still cracked from the courtyard snowball fight and sat slightly crooked on his face. Yesterday he’d been tripped by Draco into falling on top of Millicent’s snow-centaur and ended up in a headlock when he hadn’t apologized fast enough. Harry sympathized with her upset but he was _done_ with the weekly headlocks. From now on he was going to be faster on his feet. He was also calling her Millie starting tomorrow... after he caught the Snitch. 

_Please_ let him catch the Snitch!

“Here. Eat.” A plate was shoved in front of his face with two pieces of buttered toast and half a pink grapefruit. Harry looked up to see Valeria staring at him sternly. He swallowed. 

“I don’t know if I can,” he said hollowly.

“Nerves are normal, but don’t let them cripple you or make you weak. You need the energy to fly your best. You need focus.” She picked up his knife, spun it over the backs of her fingers in a move that would probably leave him one-handed if he tried it, and neatly sliced his toast into triangles. “Besides,” putting down the knife, she pursed her lips and examined his pitiful posture before begrudgingly taking a spoonful of sparkling sugar and sprinkling it over his grapefruit, making sure to give him an even coating from left to right. “I know you’ll catch the Snitch this time.” Her face showed nothing but cool confidence in his success. That and her care in trying to feed him made him feel a little bit better. “Now eat something, Harry,” she said sweetly before her eyes narrowed and went hard. “I won’t ask again.” A-a-nd they were back to scary threats. Somehow... that made him feel better too. 

Picking up a triangle of toast, Harry started eating.

It wasn’t long before Harry followed Draco down the Quidditch corridor. All four teams had private locker rooms with further divisions for boys and girls. Portraits of old winning teams guarded each door and required a password to go in. 

Slytherin’s locker room was guarded by a painting of a team from Medieval times wearing knee-length robes belted at the waist, itchy-looking wool hose, and ankle-high shoes that tapered to long thin points. Since there were multiple people in each portrait, part of the security was giving the right password to the right player. The combination changed every month, or at least it did in Slytherin. Right now the Keeper had to be told “Biting jinx” before he’d nod to the rest of the team to let you in.

Breaking into the opposing team’s locker room and pranking it was a proud and honored tradition at Hogwarts, especially because it was fiendishly difficult to do. Even innocently choosing the wrong player to give the password could get you pelted with Bludgers and broken winged Snitches, not to mention sweaty socks and the magical equivalent of muggle jockstraps and sports bras—some so old that they’d crusted over and started growing shrieking stalagmites—while the players in the portraits hurled old-fashioned curses at you like "Churl," "Wand-Wiper," "Doxy," and "Mandrake Mymmergin" until you retreated in disgrace. Part of the hazing new players like Harry had to endure was being told the wrong password and learning that fact out for yourself.

As they got closer to the Slytherin Quidditch portrait Harry’s feet slowed. He adjusted his slightly crooked glasses for the hundredth time and tried to breathe shallowly through his mouth to keep his breakfast from coming back up again.

“Harry!” called a loud female voice demandingly, a voice he hadn’t heard say his name in months. 

Wondering if he was just imagining it, Harry swung around only to see Hermione marching straight for him. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that the corners of her mouth looked white. Her bushy curls bounced and slithered over her shoulders with each stride. She had her wand clutched in her hand and looked like she was going to war. 

Harry gulped and stepped back. He thought about pulling his wand to defend himself. Didn’t. Couldn’t. His back hit the corridor wall as Hermione’s wand jabbed straight for his face. Harry squinted his eyes shut and braced himself for pain. This would hurt, but it was still Hermione. He trusted her not to do anything too permanent to him. At least... he hoped not.

“ _Oculus reparo_ ,” Hermione said crisply.

Eyes springing open, Harry felt the glasses straighten on his face and saw the crack in the corner of the glass disappear. Even the smudges from touching them so much this morning were gone. He kept forgetting that he could use magic to fix his glasses now and that their being broken wasn’t just another thing to endure.

Hermione was startlingly close, standing toe to toe with him as she stared intently at his face. Or was she staring at his hair? Did she like his new haircut? He hoped so. He’d forgotten that her lips were the same shade as the pink grapefruit he’d eaten that morning and that her front teeth were just a little big for her mouth. She had a mole in front of her left ear and her eyes weren’t completely brown but circled by a dark gray ring. And her hair, of course. Up close it defied description. Harry couldn’t catch his breath. The tips of his fingers, tongue, and toes tingled.

“Don’t fall off today. I’m not there to catch you,” she said fiercely. 

Harry blinked at her dazedly. “Okay, um, thanks. Yeah. No.” 

She nodded abruptly and turned on her heel to leave.

Panic seized Harry’s chest. “Wait!”

Hermione looked over her shoulder, caution in her eyes.

“Will you… do you….” Harry’s mouth worked but nothing coherent was coming out. His mind spun frantically but kept ricocheting off blank, empty walls. He cast his eyes roundabout desperately. Down the hall, the silver snake in the Slytherin crest on Draco’s robes caught his eye. The snake and Draco merged together in his mind like ingredients in a potion and Harry blurted out the result, “Do you know if bobbing fangfaces and basilisks real?” 

The broomstick flyer in the portrait behind Hermione, who’d been leaning forward eagerly up to that point, slapped her hand over her face and sat back, shaking her head at him. Harry almost followed suit and slapped himself. _What was that?!_

“I—I don’t know? I’d have to research that in the library….” Her brow crinkled as she stared at him.

“Oh....” Harry said in a high pitched tone. Sweat dripped down his face. He wished the ground would open at his feet and swallow him. He felt like he was going to faint. Maybe he had fainted so he wasn’t awake and witnessing himself making a complete idiot of himself in the first conversation he’d had with Hermione in months. He needed to say something clever or—or better yet, something kind. Or an apology! Yes, definitely that! 

When he tried, nothing came out of his mouth but a squeak followed by a slow wheeze.

“Right.” Turning away, Hermione left, her pace picking up speed with every step until she practically flew around the corner and disappeared. 

Harry slid down the wall and curled up into a ball, hitting himself over the head with his clenched fists and moaning in despair.

“What was that?” Draco’s polished brown flying boots nudged Harry in the leg. “You were about as graceless as a Giant Squid flying on a broom. I’ve seen Weasley speak more eloquently with a mouth full of mashed potatoes.”

“Stop, I know, sto-op,” Harry groaned into his hands, rocking back and forth in mortification.

“Whatever, we don’t have time for this. We need to get ready to play.” Grabbing Harry’s arm, Draco hauled him to his feet.

“What’s up with Harry?” Terence asked as he rounded the corner, his pace quickening. “Did he throw up from nerves?”

“No, Granger walked up to him and fixed his glasses and all Harry could get out were grunts and moans,” Draco said with disdain.

Terence grabbed Harry’s other arm and the two dragged him over to the portrait door, giving the password to the Keeper and pulling him inside. “Did Granger want anything else?” Terence asked.

“I don’t know…” Harry moaned.

“Well, at least she’s talking to you again. Take heart.” Slapping Harry on the back, Terence left him to go and get dressed.

“I don’t know why anyone would actually _want_ that swot talking at them,” Draco began, making Harry rip his arm free and turn with bared teeth and a glare, “but obviously you _do_ , so be _happy about it_. Get your head out of your arse and back into the game. Go out and catch that Snitch. Impress her. Impress the whole school. Right?”

Blinking at him, Harry found himself nodding. He felt hope blossoming in his chest and excitement starting to thrum through his veins. “Right. You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m a Malfoy.” Smirking, Draco slapped him on the back before unlocking his locker and starting to change.

Biting his lip to contain the huge grin trying to take over his face, Harry turned to his own locker and got changed too, making sure to cast all of the new sports charms he’d learned along with the classics shared by Hermione. All except for the super strong sticking charm that is. It was too restrictive on his movements and with Dobby’s promise to stop “helping” he should be fine. Wait, Dobby had promised to stop, hadn’t he...?

Crossing his fingers, Harry joined the rest of the team and flew out onto the pitch. 

When he caught the Snitch a bare twenty-five minutes into the game, Harry couldn’t help but glance over at the sea of red and gold in the stands, catching sight of a bouncing head full of brown curls before he lost sight of her as he was surrounded by the celebrating members of his team. When he got a moment to glance back up she was gone, but that was okay.

Harry knew that it was his turn to make a move to repair their friendship. After all of this time and her courageously making the first overture, it had to be a big one. He would make sure it was a big one. She deserved nothing less and for the first time in months, he had hope that she’d accept it.

Beaming wide enough to split his face, Harry joined his house in celebrating. Today he felt like a winner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely and long-suffering Betas — Iforgottocall and dizzysappedweak!
> 
> Harry’s big apology will be in chapter 9. I tried to fit it into 8, but the chapter got way too long. I’m sorry it is taking so long, but thank you for your patience and devotion to this story. I made two early decisions in plotting that I didn’t think through all of the way when it came to length. One, I decided to make Harry’s angry words at Hermione parallel Snape’s angry words at Lily; and two, I decided to keep to canon in having Hermione Petrified around the fourth Quidditch game of the season. I’m really happy with what I’ve been doing, but I hadn’t realized I’d be exploring so many character relationships for Harry in this story or having him be as big of a procrastinator as he was in the Triwizard Tournament with figuring out things and not taking initiative to solve his own problems. Initially I thought they’d only be fighting for two or maybe three chapters. Now it has turned into five. Sorry! I’m still really excited for you to see Harry’s multi-faceted apology and character growth though! Also a big conversation / confrontation between Harry and Snape. I also felt like Harry’s unhappy procrastination in apologizing now will make him much more decisive and proactive in future years to avoid such feelings happening again and that it could explain the major changes I have planned in those events (where each year will be covered MUCH MORE QUICKLY I hope). I don’t intend for there to be any more big arguments once they get through this one in 2nd year. The only thing will be them not realizing their intense friendship is actually romantic until maybe 6th year or so (because serious romance and life-long loving devotion in really young people is hard for me to take seriously and believe in considering the average mental maturity and hormonal changes occuring). But there will be intense devotion and blushing and hugs and maybe even hand-holding that is totally not romantic, not at all, of course not so why am I blushing so hard? And heart leaping out of his chest at seeing her in her dress for Yule Ball. And stuff. I also have two great scenes planned to tip our teens over into Clues-ville romance-wise. Finally, Hermione is levelling up hard-core because of the Basilisk this year and will use that to help Harry escape from the Dursleys early next summer, leaving behind a little gift for the Dursleys in the process. 
> 
> Anyway, Merry Christmas and thank you again for reading and letting me know how you are getting on. Cheers!


	8. Second Year - Tom Riddle’s Diary

Harry decided that he should copy Hermione and—unless a better opportunity presented itself—make his big apology gesture at the next Quidditch match of Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff next month. He didn’t really want to wait anymore, but he needed the time to think up something good enough for her, something that would make her smile and know he was sincere, something amazing enough to earn her forgiveness after how long it had been.

While trying to brainstorm ideas with Blaise a few days later—his resident expert in making girls smile—they turned a corner and found themselves in a hallway flooding with water. The deluge seemed to be coming from beneath a familiar bathroom door. 

“Isn’t that Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom?” Blaise asked, echoing Harry’s thoughts.

“Let’s go see what’s going on,” Harry said. It was better than listening to Blaise going on about flowers, chocolates, and poetry again. 

They splashed forward and opened the bathroom door, releasing another wave of water which soaked them almost to their knees. Exchanging grimaces, they waded into the flooded bathroom. 

“Myrtle? Are you in here?” Harry called, looking around for clues.

The gurgle and splash of water quieted for a moment, replaced by soft sniffles and sobs. Myrtle’s ghostly figure appeared sitting curled up on a sink with her chin quivering. “Where else would I b—be?” she hiccuped. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry softened his voice and moved closer. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t know ghosts could get so upset,” Blaise said just as Myrtle opened her mouth to answer.

“Well how rude!” Myrtle huffed, wiping her face. “Ghosts still have feelings. We’re not dead!” She growled. 

Harry and Blaise stared at her for a moment before exchanging a confused look. 

“We-ll,” scrunching up her nose, Myrtle twirled a pigtail, “we _are_ dead, but it still hurts when people are mean. I mean, my body may have died, but my feelings are very much alive.” She pouted and crossed her arms, turning her head away and sniffling.

Putting a hand on his chest, Blaise leaned forward with a gentle, practiced smile. “A beautiful girl like you should never waste her time with tears. Your face is made for smiles, your eyes for laughter. _Come sei carina!_ ” 

Girls always loved the Italian. Blaise could be calling them a meatball head and as long as it was in Italian they’d just smile and simper. It made Harry a bit sick, even if Blaise was his best friend.

Sure enough, a shy smile appeared on Myrtle’s face and her hunched posture straightened, unfurling like a flower in the sun of Blaise’s compliments. Biting her lip, she tucked her chin into her shoulder and giggled. “Oh, you’re a sweet one. Blaise was it? Do you like older women?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

When Blaise just upped the wattage of his smile, Harry almost threw up in his mouth. “I’m sorry someone hurt your feelings,” Harry said, extremely uninterested in watching the two of them flirt. “Is…” he looked around at the still flooded bathroom, “is there anything we can do to help?”

Myrtle turned her wide-eyed look on Harry and floated closer until she was almost touching him. “Oh, you’re sweet too, Harry,” she cooed and smiled hopefully. 

“Thanks,” Harry said, leaning back but trying not to look like he was leaning back. He wanted to help her, but _not_ if it meant flirting. “So the flooding?”

Sighing, Myrtle floated back to sit on the top of a bathroom stall, crossing her legs and swinging them. “Well you see, I was just sitting in the pipes thinking about death as I like to do—there are a lot of big pipes around this bathroom but they’ve been busy and scary lately so I’ve had to restrict myself to the smaller pipes leading down from the toilets.” Blinking down at them, she pouted. “Which isn’t really fair. Just because I’m a ghost and don’t take up any room doesn’t mean I should have to be stuck in the smallest pipes.” She sniffled and wiped her face. “I mean, I like the u-bend but not when people are throwing things through my head!” She started to wail, throwing an arm over her face and pointing dramatically to the stall beneath her feet. “Especially a big pointy book! Thrown right through my head! It was so mean!”

“I’m sorry, Myrtle,” Harry said as the sink faucets started spewing tall fountains of water again in response to her upset. His glasses were getting too spattered to see clearly so Harry cast his new Quidditch charms on himself and then on Blaise, trying to hide the movements from Myrtle so she didn’t get offended. Soon he became more comfortable and better able to see as his glasses cleared and the water started bouncing off him like rain from an umbrella. Unfortunately his robes still clung uncomfortably since they’d started out wet and the charms weren’t made for drying, just for keeping rain out in the first place. 

“You deserve much better,” Blaise said gallantly.

“I do. You’re right,” Myrtle nodded and wiped her cheeks with her arm.

“You are obviously as brave as you are beautiful, _cara_ ,” Blaise said, putting an Italian lilt into his sentence that made Myrtle bite her lip on a smile and giggle. The sinks stopped spewing water and the drain started gurgling away again, trying to drain the small lake covering Harry’s shoes.

“Oh, you think I’m brave? No one’s ever said anything like that before.” A smile lifted her cheeks and brightened her eyes. “I like that. Brave Myrtle the beautiful.” She threw back her head and gave a happy laugh, ending on a hiccup.

“You are brave.” Harry wanted to keep her good mood, but he was more about actions than pretty words like Blaise. “Here, let me get rid of it for you.” Moving into the bathroom stall, Harry fished a thin book out of the toilet and shook it a few times to get rid of the water. It must have some serious preservation charms on it because within seconds it was dry. The book looked familiar, but Harry didn’t have time to examine it. He shoved it into his bag so Myrtle wouldn’t see it and get upset again as he came out of the stall. “I’ll take this somewhere else. Feel better, Myrtle.”

“Alas, we must take our leave.” Blaise stepped back towards the door and held it open for Harry. 

“Come back again any time!” Myrtle called, waving with a little giggle, once more all smiles. “I get lonely!”

“Bye,” said Harry as he and Blaise escaped into the hall.

-oo0oo-

That evening Harry went to the library to finish his Transfiguration essay, hoping he’d see Hermione there and get his tongue untangled enough to talk, hoping he’d be inspired to figure out the details of his big gesture. Unfortunately by the time he got there, she was at one of the big group tables usually used by tutoring Prefects, the ones with the built-in silencing charms that you had to reserve in advance with Madam Pince. She was standing up and in the middle of explaining something to a group of first years that included the Weasley girl. Winnie? No, Ginny, that was it. 

Harry’s eyes were drawn back to Hermione as her hands flew through the air and her hair bounced with enthusiasm for the topic she was explaining. He missed being close to that enthusiasm. He missed talking with his friend.

Hermione looked up, eyes widening and words faltering at seeing him standing across the room staring at her. She drew in a deep breath as their eyes met for a searing moment. Everything else fell away. Harry took a step forward, heart thumping madly in his chest, only for Ginny to stand up and tug on Hermione’s sleeve insistently, pointing down at a line in a book and breaking the moment. 

Sighing, Hermione looked down and returned to her explanation, though with not quite as much excitement as before. Ginny asked something else and Hermione began reading over a paragraph written on Ginny’s scroll. As soon as Hermione was distracted, Ginny pushed back her shoulders and tried to catch Harry’s eye with a smile uncomfortably similar to the one on Moaning Myrtle’s face just a few hours earlier.

Avoiding Ginny’s eyes, Harry turned and left to go study in an abandoned classroom. He wouldn’t be able to focus with Hermione across the room like that anyway. Not until things were no longer awkward and unfinished between them. 

In his mind he heard a voice say, “ _Coward. No wonder Godric Gryffindor didn’t want you in his house._ ” 

Clenching his fists, Harry told the voice to stuff it. He was going to be both brave _and_ cunning. Yes his apology was late, but so what? Better late than never. At least it wasn't going to be lame or half-hearted. When he apologized to Hermione, it was going to be so amazing she’d never forget it. So amazing that she’d be happy to forgive him. So amazing that she’d know he’d never do anything like that ever again.

He just had to figure out what it was going to be first. 

-oo0oo-

It was cold in the castle, Harry’s breath steaming as he walked down a side corridor and fogging his glasses annoyingly. Warming his hands in his thick green and silver scarf, he turned into one of the first classrooms he found unused and pulled a desk up to the fireplace with a screech of the legs dragging across the floor. Fresh logs sat on the grate in the hearth. Waving his wand, Harry got a fire going in seconds. It felt good against his half-frozen fingertips. He stood in front of it for a minute or two, rotating himself like a chicken on a spit until he felt warm enough to start working but not so warm he’d fall asleep (it was a fine line when doing homework). 

Reaching into his bag, Harry meant to pull out his Transfiguration textbook. Instead, he found himself holding the mystery book he’d taken out of Myrtle’s toilet. There was no title, but on the inside flap the name _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ was written in precise penmanship. The name sounded familiar, like he’d read it somewhere before, but he couldn’t remember where. Perhaps in a textbook or the trophy room? Harry flipped through the book, but all of the pages were blank. It smelled strangely off-putting, not like the usual sweet and musty smell of old pages but sharp and faintly copperish, like having an ink-dipped quill scratch a bloody line across your lip. The scent clung to the inside of his nose and mouth, overpowering the pungent smoke from the fire. 

He should put the mystery book away and focus on writing his essay, but even as he thought it he watched with a strange disconnect as his hands uncapped his inkwell, dipped his quill, and wrote on the first page, “Hello, my name is Harry Potter.” He felt stupid until the words disappeared and, seconds later, new words replaced them. 

“Hello, Harry. My name is Tom Riddle and this is my diary. How do you do?”

He gave a wondering smile. Magic really was neat. Harry scooted closer to the desk and started writing back and forth with the mysterious Tom. The other boy was kind and charming and felt like someone he could ask anything. Tom wanted to know all about Harry and Harry found himself writing things he normally wouldn’t say out loud. Tom was just so sympathetic and understanding. Harry told himself that if things got weird he could just stop writing in the diary, though he didn’t want to stop. Writing to Tom felt important and compelling. 

It wasn’t long before Harry found himself asking if Tom knew anything about the Chamber of Secrets.

“Yes,” Tom’s answer appeared quickly. “Let me show you.” 

Harry found himself sucked into a vision of Hogwarts from fifty years ago. Tom turned out to be a tall, dark-haired, and confident-looking sixth year wearing a Slytherin Prefect badge. Harry followed Tom as he walked through the school and came across a group of distressed-looking teachers, including a younger Albus Dumbledore, standing outside Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. They were discussing how Miss Warren had been killed and that with the killer still on the loose they were going to have to close the school and send all of the students home early. 

Tom looked upset and then coldly determined. He talked briefly with Dumbledore before leaving.

Harry realized with a pang that this must’ve been how poor Moaning Myrtle died. No, not _Moaning_ Myrtle—Myrtle _Warren_. Hopefully it had been quick and painless since her ghostly body wasn’t covered in blood like the Bloody Baron and she didn’t have a mostly severed head like Nearly Headless Nick, much less bite marks or torn off limbs from some crazed creature. Nevertheless, painful death or not, her life was still over.

Marching through the castle and up several flights of stairs, Tom drew his wand and burst into a small attic room. When a familiar young half-giant leaped to his feet in front of a nest box, Harry was shocked. Tom disarmed him and held him at wand point. “Hagrid, one of your monstrous little pets has murdered someone. You’re going to take responsibility so the school doesn’t close. I’m going to kill that thing. Move aside.”

Hagrid refused, denying Tom’s words and rushing Tom in an attempt to protect his friend. In the chaos that followed a large spider escaped the room and ran away down the hall. Disbelieving, Harry watched as Tom subdued Hagrid and turned him over to a Headmaster Dippet for punishment (Dumbledore was still only a Professor). Hagrid’s continuing loud denials were ignored. Everyone knew the half-giant consorted with monsters. Tom had caught him red-handed after all. To both Headmaster Dippet and Tom Riddle, Hagrid’s guilt was clear.

Falling out of the memory, Harry slammed the diary shut. He didn’t want to believe it, not of Hagrid. He wouldn’t kill an innocent person or order one of his pets to do so. Hagrid had too kind a heart. He wouldn’t have killed anyone… at least, not on purpose. Hagrid did have a soft spot for scary and dangerous creatures. Fluffy the cerberus and Norbert the dragon were probably just the tip of the iceberg. 

Harry could reluctantly believe that one of Hagrid’s creatures might’ve done it, though if it had been that same spider from the memory, shouldn’t it be dead after fifty years? And if Hagrid knew about it, shouldn’t he have told Dumbledore as soon as this started up again? Though Dumbledore was also at the school the last time the Chamber was opened. Shouldn’t he have talked to Hagrid first thing after finding the message on the wall? Maybe he had and then cleared Hagrid of any blame. Why else would Hagrid still be around?

No, Hagrid had to be innocent. Besides, there was no way Hagrid was attacking muggleborns. He wasn’t prejudiced and had flat-out told Hermione last year that only stupid people thought less of muggleborn witches and wizards and to ignore the unkind words. Hagrid had given Harry the only birthday cake he could remember and cried over a baby dragon being born. Harry couldn’t see Hagrid standing by and letting people be hurt if he knew how to stop it. 

On top of that, if Hagrid knew what was going on he would’ve spilled the beans ages ago; he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. No, if Hagrid or Dumbledore could’ve used their knowledge of what happened back then to help people now, they already would have. Dumbledore wouldn’t have missed something so obvious. 

Harry tapped the diary against his chin. He found the scent of it enticing and pleasant now, not strange or off-putting at all. He wanted to open it again, breathe in deeply, and keep writing to Tom, the epitome of a Slytherin.

A log spat loudly and shifted in the fireplace, causing Harry’s head to jerk up as if breaking him from a spell. Shaking his head sharply, he was surprised to see the diary cracked open again and his quill poised above the page. Flinging the quill down, he sat back with a huff. What was he doing? His head was already full of too many new things to think about without adding even more to it right now. 

Besides, Tom was only a memory from fifty years ago, not a solution to the school’s current difficulties. He didn’t know the things Harry most wanted answers for, like what Hagrid had been thinking back then and what he was thinking now, much less what exactly was petrifying muggleborns, a cat, and a ghost. Harry would have to set aside some time to sneak out and talk to Hagrid. 

The tolling of the clocktower jolted Harry from his thoughts and made him realize he had the quill poised above the open diary again. He didn’t remember picking the quill up again. Weird. Nevertheless, curfew was starting soon and he still hadn’t finished his stupid essay. That had to come first. 

Grimacing, Harry shoved the diary back into his bag, forced his hand to unclench and drop it, and pulled out his Transfiguration essay and textbook. Homework was more urgent. Hagrid and the Chamber would keep.

By the time Harry had finished his essay, curfew had come and gone. Yawning wide enough to split his face, he banked the fire and left. He didn’t have his invisibility cloak on him, but it wasn’t too hard to dodge Mr. Filch without Mrs. Norris stalking around helping him. 

Harry saw the Weasley twins sneaking into the History of Magic classroom. Probably setting up a prank. Not interested in exchanging insults, he snuck past them to get to the staircase leading to the dungeons and went down. 

Two hallways away from his destination he turned a corner and ran into a pair of Prefects on rounds. Heart sinking, Harry froze only to realize that they were Slytherins. He released a gusty sigh and respectfully bowed his head, not lowering his eyes just in case they cast something at him while he was distracted. “Excuse me, I was finishing an essay and lost track of time. I’m sorry to bother you.” Prefects were supposed to take points if they found you out late, but Slytherin Prefects didn’t care if they caught a fellow house member out after curfew. He should be fine. 

Should be didn’t mean was. 

“Give us a reason to leave you alone, Potter. I’m bored.” Prefect Reyansh Ahuja fingered his wand and eyed Harry up and down. His black hair and golden-brown skin was set off by the bright gold embroidery on the high collar and long cuffs of the pale yellow tunic he wore under his robes. Ahuja was a power in Slytherin and notorious for doing just about anything to avoid boredom.

Harry hadn’t intended on saying anything about what he’d seen earlier, but he wasn’t risking his skin for Gryffindors, much less two weasels. “The Weasley twins are upstairs right now pranking the History of Magic classroom.” He didn’t like being a snitch, so he added, “Though it might be funnier to see what happens tomorrow instead of interrupting them now.” He shrugged. “Your call, of course. You’re the Prefects, not me.”

“Hmm, we’ll check it out,” Ahuja said before jerking his chin to the side. “Get on back to Slytherin before one of the other patrols finds you and takes points.”

Harry nodded. “Of course. Thank you.” Showing respect and good manners to the upper years, especially those at the top of their house hierarchy, was always a good idea. Ahuja may be an arrogant jerk, but there was nothing to be gained by letting him know you thought that. Besides, he wasn’t that bad compared with some of the others. He’d never jinxed Harry because Harry had never given him reason to. Most of the time Ahuja pretended Harry didn’t even exist and Harry was fine with that.

On reaching the safety of the common room, Harry saw Blaise and eagerly pulled out the diary to get his friend’s take on the situation. Harry explained how Tom talked back through the pages and that when the Chamber had been opened fifty years before, Moaning Myrtle had been the one to die and one of Hagrid’s pets had been blamed for it. About to get a quill and demonstrate so Blaise could ask Tom questions too, Harry found the diary unexpectedly ripped out of his hands.

“What are you doing with my father’s book?!” Draco demanded loudly, jaw clenched and brow beetled, holding the book in the air accusingly.

“What do you mean your father’s book? I found it in Moaning Myrtle’s toilet today with Blaise.” 

“He did,” Blaise said quickly, looking back and forth between them with apprehension.

Harry scowled and tried to grab the book back, but Draco moved it out of reach. “It’s mine,” Harry said loudly.

“As if,” Draco sneered. “I don’t care where you found it, this is my father’s book, the one I told you about a few months ago, the one that Weasley chit stole from him.” Harry jerked, realizing why it had looked familiar as Draco added, “It belongs in the Malfoy library and I will be returning it to him.”

“Wait wait wait, I remember that conversation,” Blaise held up his hands. “You’re saying that this is the book Harry saw your father slip to Ginny Weasley? Because if so, she didn’t steal it, she was secretly given it and then, presumably, threw it away into the toilet. Harry found it fair and square.” 

While Draco was distracted glaring at Blaise, Harry reached out and snatched the book from Draco’s grasp. “Finders keepers.” He still had more questions for Tom; he wasn’t letting the diary go. Turning, he ran from the room and through the hallways, circling around and back into the common room while they were looking the other direction, wiggling down into a small space between a couch and armchair and sliding his legs beneath the furniture to fit, pulling a throw blanket over the gap to further hide himself. 

A minute later he heard Draco’s voice. “Crabbe, Goyle, search the common room for Potter!” Luckily for Harry, no one thought to look between the furniture, just in front and behind. They finally gave up the search and went to bed. Harry dozed fitfully until all was quiet and then wiggled out and snuck back to his room, hiding the diary in his locked trunk. He was exhausted but feeling smug.

The next day he returned to his dorm room at lunch to switch out his textbooks, only to find the things in his trunk jumbled and the diary gone. “Draco! Where’s my diary?!” Harry roared, turning to see Draco shoving Vincent and Greg in front of him as a protective wall. 

“Since when do you have a diary?” Theo sneered with amusement in his voice as he leaned back against his bedpost and crossed his arms.

“None of your business,” Harry snapped before turning back to Draco. “Well? Where is it?” His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He’d draw his wand, but Vincent might think that too aggressive and attack. Three to one was piss poor odds, four to one if Theo joined in.

Examining his nails behind Vincent’s back, Draco gave an overdone sigh. “There’s no reason to be so dramatic. I retrieved it after you opened your trunk to get out some fresh clothes this morning. You forgot to secure the lid when Blaise started teasing you about tapestry Medusa again. The diary’s halfway to my father by now, the _rightful_ owner. If you’re that sore about losing it I can buy you a new one. Being rich, I can easily buy you 365—one for every day of the year. Besides, magical objects that talk to you rarely do so for altruistic reasons. There’s always a hidden agenda, even with dear old Tommy boy. Really, I was doing you a favor.”

Gnashing his teeth, Harry snatched up his bag and stormed from the room before Draco suggested Harry thank him for the theft and made Harry lose all sense of self-preservation and attack him despite the odds. Harry had no interest in spending the night in the infirmary.

-oo0oo-

Harry and Draco stopped talking to each other. Again. Harry was fine with that. Who needed a thief for a friend anyway?

He distracted himself from the strife by narrowing down his plans for how to approach Hermione. He was done with being too proud. Done with procrastination. He wanted his friend back no matter what it took at this point, though Blasie’s refrain of _flowers, chocolates, poetry_ was too old and tired. It wasn’t special enough.

Unfortunately, Hermione wasn’t making it easy on him. He saw her noticing him lingering in the hall to talk to her after class, but she didn’t detach herself from the Gryffindors and come over. She just sent him a challenging look and turned back to packing up her books or explaining something to Longbottom or Brown. It was pretty clear that a lazy apology would gain him nothing at this point and in fact might make her actively hostile. 

Last year they used to sit together to watch Quidditch matches and he’d just assumed before their fallout that when he wasn’t playing it would be the same way this year. Obviously it hadn’t worked out that way. During the Hufflepuff vs. Ravenclaw game he’d been forced to stare at the back of her head instead of sitting next to her with only that flag-waving Hufflepuff boy cheering on his girlfriend to break him from his regrets. It hadn’t been pleasant, though being humiliated and the fight that followed had certainly made the experience worse. In retrospect he probably should’ve hit Draco harder. Rewinding the memory back to when he was staring at Hermione’s sunlit curls interspersed with the boy and his flapping yellow flag, Harry got an idea. 

It was risky. There was a chance he might end up humiliating himself, but it would certainly prove his sincerity and be better than reciting a soppy poem. If it worked out the way he hoped, it would also show Hermione that he still cared about her. If he was extremely lucky, he might get away with making the offer without having to actually go through with it and earn a smile and a hug. He missed her hugs. He missed them enough that he was ready to humiliate himself for the privilege. 

-oo0oo-

Moving between classes a couple of weeks later with Blaise as a buffer between him and Draco, Harry noticed Derrick and Bole lingering by the window on the right side of the hall up ahead. He nudged his group so they walked down the far side of the hall. Even a crowded corridor wasn’t enough to protect him sometimes; it just made it harder to see where the jinx was coming from. Clenching his jaw, Harry kept his head down and tried to stay out of trouble.

“You’re gonna be the next to die,” Bole’s voice cut through the chatter filling the hallway like a bludger. “No one wants you here, mudblood.”

Palming his wand, Harry swung around only to see Bole and Derrick cornering little Halle Harper against the wall, too busy to even notice Harry. That explained the mudblood comment. Everyone in Slytherin had known Harry was a half-blood before Harry had even known it himself. 

“C’mon, Harry,” Blaise whispered uneasily, tugging on his arm. Harry shook him off. The corners of Draco’s pale eyes looked tight but otherwise he watched the scene unemotionally. It made Harry mad. His heartbeat picked up.

Flat against the wall, the hair from her pigtails catching on the rough stone, Halle clutched her bag to her chest and stared up at Bole and Derrick with wide eyes and cheeks so pale that the freckles stood out like flecks of cinnamon on milk. The bright light reflecting off the snow outside gave her a faint glow that washed out her coloring in a way eerily similar to a ghost. She could be Moaning Myrtle’s sister. The comparison made Harry uneasy.

The group of first and second year students sharing the hall with them moved past quickly, obviously not interested in helping someone who was a Slytherin. Only Ginny Weasley paused to stare. Her expression quickly morphed from shock into disgust, probably just as prejudiced against Slytherins as her older brothers.

“Tick tock, the monster’s coming for you next.” Derrick laughed low and mean as he loomed over Halle. Her eyes went wet and glassy as she shrank down and pressed her shoulders harder against the wall. “You don’t belong here. Salazar Slytherin would turn over in his grave if he saw a mudblood like you wearing his colors. In fact, he probably opened the Chamber of Secrets just to fix that mistake, trying to get rid of you.” Reaching out, Derrick ripped the green and silver scarf from her throat and tossed it to the floor, smiling at her cry of pain as the action wrenched her neck to the side. 

“Hey, back off!” Harry snarled, batting away Blaise’s restraining hands and shoving past Ginny so his wand had a clear shot at the bullies. Mentally he sifted through the spells he’d been learning in Viper school. “I said back off!”

Bole and Derrick exchanged a glance and then turned to face Harry with twin looks of disdain and superiority. “Or you’ll do what, Potty? Call the monster in front of all of us? Go ahead. We know _we’re_ safe. Even the Weasel is a pureblood.” Bole gestured dismissively to Ginny before pointing his thumb at Halle with a sneer. “The mudblood on the other hand….”

Halle whimpered and shot a terrified look at Harry.

“That’s it you—” wand pointed at Bole’s face, Harry was about to snarl an insult and send him to the hospital wing when he was cut off by a familiar, hated voice.

“Potter!” Professor Snape’s voice filled the hall like a flash bang from Finnegan blowing up another potion. Snape stalked out of a small side corridor, robe billowing around his back like a cloud of black smoke. “Harassing other students I see, just like your father. If you cast a spell I’ll see your wand snapped. One more word and your detention is doubled.”

Everyone jerked around to look at Snape, giving Halle the chance to wiggle free, snatch up her scarf with a sob, and run away down the hall. The lingering Gryffindors followed her lead and scattered, leaving only Derrick and Bole on one side with Harry, Blaise, and Draco on the other. Theo had disappeared early on and Greg and Vincent gave a final peek from around the corner up ahead before running off, probably too scared they’d get in trouble to stay.

Harry glared at the pale winter sky outside the window and bit his tongue to keep from saying something that would get him in even worse trouble. It sounded like Snape had already decided to give him detention. Explaining that he’d been trying to help Halle was useless. Snape would never believe Harry’s word over anyone else’s; he’d just give him more detention for trying.

Snape gave Halle’s back a single glance, eyebrow arching, before turning his long beak of a nose back in their direction. “Mr. Bole, Mr. Derrick, would one of you care to explain?”

Lips twisting, Bole crossed his arms and lifted his chin confidently. “We were just curious, Sir, and having a friendly chat with the little mu— _Muggle_ and asking her how she managed to sneak into Slytherin. That’s when Potter butted in and tried to start a fight.” He shrugged innocently.

“She’s not a Muggle, she’s a witch!” Harry snapped, glaring at him through half-lowered lashes as the blood pounded in his temples. “And she didn’t sneak in, she was openly sorted into Slytherin by the hat because she belongs here, same as the rest of us.”

Derrick scoffed and Bole rolled his eyes. Snape didn’t seem to care. Maybe he agreed with them.

Harry felt a pang of hate, not just for them, but for all bullies. His scar itched and it almost felt like a string unspooled from it to tie around his wand hand, urging him to move it up and through the motion of the worst curse he knew. It would be stupid. Harry was upset, but not enough to hex them right in front of a professor and risk expulsion. The string tugged enticingly on his wrist again, promising that if he made the motion with enough intent, speaking the incantation out loud wouldn’t be necessary. He could get away with it; he could have fun making them hurt. 

Harry wrestled with temptation, almost going through with it before finding the strength to shove away the impulse, too uneasy with the idea of enjoying someone else’s pain. The hate in his head flared again. Harry shoved it away harder. _No._ He would not become the very thing he despised.

Hissing lightly, Snape clamped a hand over his forearm and rubbed hard once, as if trying to banish a deep ache before ripping his hand away as if burned. “Get to class. Now!” he barked over his shoulder as he disappeared down a side corridor, practically running. 

It was strange, but Harry wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Snape had only implied detention, not actually assigned it. Harry was going to consider himself free and clear unless specifically told otherwise.

“Were we not paying enough attention to you, Potty? Have you been missing our time together, is that what your little outburst is about?” Bole sneered. “Or do you have a crush on the little mudblood? You do seem to have a type.”

A roaring filled Harry’s ears and he took a step forward, wand jumping back up into casting position.

“This is getting embarrassing, boys,” Draco drawled, sauntering forward to stand in the space between Harry and his bullies.

Harry sent him a sharp look, but Draco didn’t seem to notice or care, too busy staring down his nose at Derrick and Bole. “I’m rather surprised at how little you two know of your family history. It’s shameful really.” Shaking his head, he sighed and spoke slowly and clearly, “Miss Harper is a half-blood, not a muggleborn. Her family’s not rich, it’s true, but neither are the Boles or Derricks, especially when compared to the Malfoys.” He curled his lip and put a hand on his hip. “Her grandmother was a Warren, making her a distant cousin to the Blacks, my mother’s family of birth, as well as to the Selwyns and Ollivanders, all Sacred Twenty-Eight.” Bole’s mouth dropped open in clear dismay. 

Harry wondered if that meant Halle’s grandmother was related to Myrtle, since they were both Warrens. Maybe sisters or cousins?

Draco ignored Bole and turned to the suddenly frozen Derrick, tutting. “Isn’t your grandmother an Ollivander? My father always said she had a nasty temper and no scruples when it came to someone insulting her family of birth, almost as bad as my own dear mother in fact. I’m surprised she approves of what you’ve been insinuating about the girl’s forefathers, or did you not mention that to her over Christmas when she took you to task for jinxing me all those weeks ago and threatened to write you out of her will? Shall I have my mother send her another letter? Or perhaps mention it the next time they take tea? She quite likes me, even sent me a present for Christmas to make up for your deficiencies.”

Not breathing, Derrick’s eyes went so wide that the whites showed clear around the iris. His face turned a sickly green and he swallowed hard. When he spoke his voice squeaked and trembled. “No! That’s—that’s fine.” He bowed to Draco several times and scurried backwards. “I apologize, again, for my mistake last year. Thank you for educating me and please—please forgive me, Malfoy, and please don’t—don’t say anything to my grandmother. Please.” He stumbled sideways before turning around and racing off. 

Frowning ferociously after his fleeing friend, Bole sent Harry a hard glare and Draco a fearful and unwillingly respectful one before following. Smirking gloatingly, Draco rocked back on his heels and watched them disappear. 

A dull ache settled in on the same side of Harry’s head as his scar. Stupid scar. Stupid bullies. 

Blaise whistled. “Wow, I’m impressed, Draco.”

“Thank you,” Draco said with false modesty, polishing his knuckles on his chest. “Shall we continue on to class, gentlemen?” He gestured forward, the motion making his eyes fall on Harry’s face. 

His hand stuttered and the smile on his mouth faded, though he didn’t drop his eyes. “Well Harry?” _Harry_ , not Potter. Draco sounded uncertain and hopeful, using Harry’s first name for the first time since they’d argued over the diary weeks ago.

With a burst of insight, Harry realized that this was as close to an apology as Draco was likely to get. No wonder Harry had screwed up apologizing to Hermione if this was his model for friendship. His friends rarely apologized, just waited for things to blow over and then did something to show they wanted to be friends again, like standing up for you in front of a bully or pushing the largest dessert plate your way at dinner. 

Relationships with girls were different, or maybe it was being a Gryffindor or even just Hermione. He wished he could fix things with the simple gift of a cauldron cake, but it was way past that now. Relationships were difficult. Difficult but...worth the aggravation. Friendship was worth it. 

Pulling in a deep breath, Harry blew out his anger and pulled up the relief he felt at not needing to fight anymore. Holding grudges didn’t do him any good. Things were always better when Draco was his friend instead of his enemy. Nevertheless, it still took effort to speak to him in a normal tone for the first time in weeks. At least he had a lot of practice with this stage of the friendship dance with Draco. 

“Sure, and thanks for helping Halle.” After all, nothing Harry had tried had done any good for the girl. Halle was as scared of him as ever and still being bullied about her supposed blood status. That though made him tired. Maybe Draco’s words would bear more fruit. 

Still holding eye contact, he nodded at Draco, ready to just move on. The corners of Draco’s mouth curled up as he nodded back. Shoulder to shoulder, they started moving down the hall.

“Let’s swing by the library and get those books we need so we don't have to come up later,” Blaise suggested, falling in with them.

Harry shrugged. “Okay.”

“So Harry,” Draco drawled as they went up a staircase and down another hall, “the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff game is this weekend. Have you talked to Granger yet?”

At the question, every muscle in his body went tight. “I’m getting to it. I have a plan, so just shut up about it or we’re going to go back to fighting.”

Before Draco could reply, Blaise pushed between them, slinging an arm around their shoulders. His growth spurt had hit recently, making him taller than both of them. “Boy does he. Harry’s plan is written on a scroll thicker than my arm.”

“What a coincidence. That’s what your last girlfriend said about me,” Draco said, shrugging him off. 

Ignoring Draco’s attempt at dirty humor, Harry felt his cheeks turn hot. “I’m not telling you about my plan until I’m ready. And Blaise’s arm is _scrawny_ so that’s not a fair comparison.” 

“Not just his arm, she said,” Draco added airily.

Blaise turned and ruffled up Draco’s carefully slicked back hair. “Everyone knows you haven’t done anything but kiss, and you haven’t kissed anyone but your mom and Pansy. Pansy barely counts because she kissed you while you were snoring in the common room.”

Rearing back, Draco put a protective hand over his hair. “Pansy’s gross.”

“You’re being gross. Stop it,” Harry whined.

“Fine, will your plan be ready by the game this weekend?” Draco smirked. “Or will you be asking Granger about bobbing fangfaces again and mumbling incoherently?”

Harry reached behind Blaise to pinch Draco’s side, making him jump and squeak. “How about I give you a fang face?” 

“How about you give it to Lockhart? Think even that would change his behavior?” Blaise pointed to where Professor Lockhart was strutting past a corridor near the library, only to backtrack and strike a pose, admiring his reflection in the highly polished shield held by a statue of a short knight riding a hairy hog that stood at the intersection. Sighing soppily, Lockhart started running fingers through his hair and making kissing faces. 

“The git would probably claim his fang face came from a tragic battle with a vampire where he saved a bunch of baby unicorns and the girls would all believe him and keep on swooning.” Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Blaise snorted. “How much do you want to bet that by the end of the year he ends up in a love triangle with a mirror and a dark window?”

“No bet,” Draco shook his head. “I can just see him trying to kiss his reflection one dark and lonely night, coming in too hot and accidentally falling out the window, only to tell Madam Pomfrey the next morning from his hospital bed that he’d fallen on purpose.”

Harry rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Oh Merlin, I can totally picture that. Gross.”

Laughing, Draco stuck a hand out at Blaise and arched his brow challengingly. “Two galleons on Lockhart going out a window before the school year ends.”

“Done.” Blaise shook his hand firmly. “That’s a sucker’s bet because his windows are spelled shut and I doubt he knows the incantation to reverse it.”

Draco opened his mouth, paused, and then cursed, “Merlin’s pants, I didn’t even think about that. He really is that dim.” He pouted.

“Too late,” Blaise called over his shoulder as he continued on towards the library. “A bet’s a bet.”

As Harry and Draco followed him, Draco leaned over to quietly ask, “Hey Harry, if I need to describe this scroll of yours to Granger, should I say it’s bigger or smaller than normal?”

Dodging Harry’s outraged attack, Draco ran ahead and jumped into the library, slowing down and strolling past Madam Pince’s desk with an innocent expression as if Harry wasn’t drilling holes through his back. It got worse when he noticed Hermione sitting at a nearby table writing an essay. Draco paused behind her bowed head, tipped his head to the side, and pointed down at the long scroll she was writing on, looking back and forth between it and Harry with a steadily growing smirk that just begged for a smack. 

When Hermione stopped writing and started to turn around to see who was hovering there, Harry’s nerve broke and he fled the library. He had better things to do than stand around and let Draco keep teasing him to mend their friendship. Things like putting the final touches on his apology plan for this weekend and reviewing contingencies A-Z on his scroll again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta readers! And thank you guys too for reading and reviewing! I’m so excited for the next chapter and Harry’s apology plan. Woo hoo! It will be almost twice as long as this chapter too, so lots of content.


	9. Second Year - Harry’s Apology Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, my friends!!! This is unedited by betas but I wanted to give you a present. Cheers!

The day of the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff game dawned with clear blue skies and bright yellow sunshine, turning the light sliding through the underwater windows into the dungeons a pretty blue-green. Harry woke up, realized the date, and had to put a pillow over his face to muffle his freak out as he realized that today was the day to implement his apology plan. No more procrastinating.

“You okay in there, mate?” Blaise’s concerned and amused voice drifted through the heavy velvet curtains around his bed.

“Fine!” Harry squeaked out before smashing his pillow over his face again to slow down his breathing so he didn’t pass out and make himself late for breakfast. Trying to calm down, he went over the plan in his mind again and gave himself a pep talk. 

In true Gryffindor style, he’d created a ‘ _ no guts, no glory _ ’ plan to apologize to Hermione. He’d be disgusted with himself if he wasn’t so desperate to get a certain curly-haired Gryffindor to forgive him. Trying to think and organize like Hermione, he’d made an extremely comprehensive plan. He’d never been this organized, with multiple fall-back plans if the primary one didn’t work out spanning every letter of the alphabet and all possible contingencies (the scroll really was thicker than Blaise’s arm). 

No matter what happened, Harry promised himself that he wasn’t going to let the day end without apologizing to Hermione face-to-face. This time he wouldn’t squeak, wheeze, or flail. This time he’d be smooth, sincere, and confident and make sure he got out all the words. He’d look into her eyes and say, “I am sorry.” Though just in case he’d also practiced saying, “I’m sorry” and, “Please forgive me” and even a combination of, “Please, I’m sorry, forgive me.” He’d have to play it by ear to see which seemed most appropriate when the moment came, but however it was worded, it needed to be done today. He was going to do it. Today!

The snow had melted yesterday afternoon, uncovering the muddy brown grass of the Quidditch pitch. It looked about as pleasant as the ragged fur on Weasley’s pet rat Scabbers. At least the game was played in the air and not on the ground because he wanted Hermione to be in a good mood today. Hopefully it wasn’t a bad omen for Harry’s plans. 

Harry obviously sucked at this friend thing, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of experience having friends or repairing relationships. Growing up, Dudley had frightened away everyone who thought to be nice to Harry, much less befriend him. If Harry calculated it out, he’d only really had friends—subtracting out last summer’s separation—for about a year and a half out of twelve years. If you factored in that Draco was one of those friends the time should probably be even shorter. That was less than ten percent of his life! The amount of time he’d spent talking to girls was even smaller. A little awkwardness and the occasional mistake was only natural. However, he was fixing that. Today!

Harry’s plan had a good chance of making the people in Slytherin mad at him. He was going to mitigate that as best he could but wouldn’t let it hold him back. Part of his problem was that he’d spent too much time this year being self-conscious and listening to other people’s opinions instead of focusing on what he knew to be true. He’d given into his fears and lost his focus. No more!

After rolling out of bed, he showered, brushed his teeth, and dressed carefully in his nicest robes. Combing his hair in front of the mirror, he squeezed on some Sleekeazy Hair Potion and carefully worked it through his black hair. He’d been gobsmacked to learn that the potion had been created by Fleamont Potter, his paternal grandfather. Draco had looked into it and told Harry that sales of the potion back in the day had increased the Potter family’s already large fortune even before Fleamont had sold the company for a huge profit, making the Potters one of the richest families in England. 

Harry kept forgetting that he wasn’t poor anymore. It didn’t seem very relevant at school and he didn’t have access to the money during summers at the Dursleys. The only time he saw the money was when he was escorted to the bank in August to get some galleons to purchase school supplies. Maybe he’d have to see if he could change that in the future, but he couldn’t think of anything to do about it now. Running his hands through his hair, he wondered if his crazy hair was common for the men in his family and if that had been the reason Fleamont had created the hair potion in the first place. The family connection made him smile, like his grandfather was looking over his shoulder and trying to help him look his best today. 

Rinsing off his fingers, Harry shook off the water droplets and started styling his hair the way Blaise had been nagging him to do ever since the other boy had decided that he was in charge of Harry’s haircuts. Harry had feared that he’d accidentally use too much potion on himself and his hair would end up slicked flat with his scar sticking out like a huge red pimple, but the potion only tamed his thick hair, it didn’t flatten it like roadkill. Blaise had been right about the styling, though Harry wouldn’t risk telling him so for fear it would inflate his head so big he’d never fit through a doorway again. His black locks somehow looked purposefully messy, tousling perfectly across his scar to hide it and combining with his glasses to give him an air of sophistication and cool confidence. He looked good, really good. 

Maybe he’d also have to start listening better to Draco’s lectures on how personal appearance influenced perception and power. Not today, though. Today was apology day.

Harry looked around to make sure the bathroom was empty, then braced his hands on the sink and stared hard into the bright green eyes reflecting back at him in the mirror. “Okay, Harry, you can do this. You are brave. You are cunning. You are sorry. This is going to work. You are going to go out there today and you are going to apologize to Hermione. No more hesitation. No more pride. You are going to do whatever it takes to earn her forgiveness. Even if a Weasley says something, you will not let them get inside your head. The teasing and insults from everyone, including other Slytherins, will bounce off you like marshmallows. They can’t change your mind. You know what you have to do. You will apologize. You have a good plan. You have contingencies. You are prepared. You will not give up no matter what happens. You are proud of yourself for apologizing. Hermione is your focus. Her friendship is priceless and you will do whatever you have to do to earn it back. Today! You will not fail. You can do this!” He pointed at himself in the mirror and nodded in agreement. “I can do this!”

Harry leaned back and let go of the sink, looking straight up. “And if you’re watching out for me, Mum, Dad, Grandfather Potter, and various deceased relatives, I’d really appreciate any help you could send my way today to keep me from screwing this up. Help me be a friend you’d be proud of.” Sucking in a deep breath, Harry straightened the fall of his robes, checked that the present in his pocket was still there, and turned to go. 

Only to find himself face-to-face with a pair of huge grey eyes. “Gah!” 

Stumbling back, he fumbled out his wand, only to hear a giggle. Sucking in his breath, he realized that it was only Moaning Myrtle.

Wait.

Moaning Myrtle. In his bathroom. The bathroom where he used the toilet and showered. Naked. Moaning Myrtle was in his bathroom, staring at him and giggling. Harry gulped.

“Bravo! Lovely speech, Harry. Your friend’s a lucky girl,” Myrtle said in a wispy voice, twisting back and forth on her toes as she twiddled her thumbs. Turning, she floated around the room and peered through the gaps in the shower curtains, seemingly disappointed at finding them all empty. “I wish someone would care enough to apologize to me like that.” Sighing, she flew over and leaned against the mirror, seemingly unbothered that she didn’t have a reflection or that her body was cut in half by the sink.

“Myrtle, what are you doing in the Slytherin bathroom? The  _ boy’s _ bathroom?” Heart still pounding, Harry pressed a hand against his chest, feeling very uncomfortable and slightly underdressed, even in his thick winter robes.

“Oh, Valeria invited me,” she said breezily.

“What?” Harry squeaked. “Valeria did?”

Nodding, Myrtle gave a shy smile. “When I told her how lonely my bathroom feels. She’s the only one brave enough to regularly use my loo instead of detouring to a different floor just to avoid me. She said I didn’t have to be alone if I didn’t want to be and was free to come over to the Slytherin Dorm or anywhere in the castle really. Said no one was going to save me from loneliness and that if it really bothered me I’d have to save myself, told me that I  _ should  _ save myself.” She bit her lip and tilted her head in thought. “You see, I haven’t wanted to leave my bathroom since it’s where I’m most comfortable. Dying somewhere really makes it a home.” She paused and stared at him as if waiting for a response. 

Slightly disturbed and feeling out of his depth, Harry just said, “Okay.”

Thankfully that seemed to be enough as Myrtle continued. “So I was sitting there in the u-bend feeling sorry for myself when I remembered that it’s normal for people to leave home occasionally to go on vacation. I haven’t been on a vacation since I died, though when the girl who used to bully me graduated from school I would leave all of the time to follow her around and torment her, but that was more like work, though work I loved, but then she complained to the Ministry and they did something that confined me to the castle and away from her, which was very unfair and made me quite cross.” She pouted.

“I can see that,” Harry said, tilting his head to the side and really thinking about it. “If I was a ghost, I’d probably want to torment my bullies too.” He found himself nodding. “Yeah.” He’d certainly haunt the Dursleys, not to mention Derrick and Bole. Probably the Weasleys too, see if he could turn their red hair white. Maybe pop in on Draco every once in a while just to startle him into jumping and screaming like a little girl. “Being forced to stay and live somewhere you don’t want to stinks. I know all about that.”

Beaming, Myrtle flew forward and reached out to pinch Harry’s cheek, though her fingers went right through his face. He flinched back before forcing himself to hold still as her ghostly hands cupped his face. It didn’t feel like anything, but he could see the shape of her hands from the corners of his eyes. “I knew I liked you, Harry. You’re not just a pretty face. You’re understanding and kind. That’s rare you know.” 

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly, not knowing what to say to that. 

A crooked smile rounded Myrtle’s cheeks and made her nose wrinkle in a silly way that was just so human that it struck him suddenly that Myrtle had been a real, living girl once who’d had her life stolen from her. She hadn’t always been a ghost and had probably never expected or wanted to end up this way. Who did?

Thinking about his plans for the day, Harry pushed down his discomfort, straightened his back, and looked into her ghostly grey eyes. Now was as good of a time to start as any and maybe Myrtle deserved this just as much as Hermione did. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were bullied and I’m sorry you were killed. You deserved better, Myrtle. I hope you get it someday.”

Smile faltering, Myrtle’s lower lip trembled and her eyes glistened with tears. “Oh…” she swallowed hard. “Thank you, Harry.” The trembling took over her entire body as tears overflowed and slid down her cheeks in gleaming silver tracks, more powerful for being silent. “No one’s… ever… said that... to me… before.” Putting her hands over her face, she broke down into hitching sobs. “No one’s… ever… apologized.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again, feeling an unexpected stinging in his nose and eyes as he watched her, unable to even put a hand on her shoulder in comfort. He felt helpless. All he had were words, inadequate but sincere. “I’m sorry, Myrtle. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right. I’m so sorry.”

Looking up and biting her lip, Myrtle jumped forward and gave Harry a ghostly hug. It was like being engulfed in a cool, silvery-grey mist. For a split second he felt a wet cheek pressing against his jaw. Then the feeling disappeared as she flew straight through him and gave a loud sob, diving into the nearest toilet stall with a wail and sending up a plume of water as she disappeared into the pipes.

-oo0oo-

When Harry came out into the common room, he looked over at his favorite tapestry of Aglaia posing triumphantly in her potions lab and took a deep breath. With Aglaia the Unforgiving, no one ever mentioned if anyone had actually apologized to her before she’d potioned them into submission. Harry liked to think that if someone had, she might’ve given them a chance to redeem themselves before dosing them with the Draught of Living Death. It had probably taken courage, cunning, and a good dose of humility to bargain with Medusa and the gorgons. Harry wasn’t looking for blood today, just forgiveness, but both were equally precious and hard to come by whether it came from hot Medusa or Hermione. 

A wolf whistle jerked him out of his thoughts, “Looking good there, Harry. Trying to make Blaise jealous? Where are you off to? Breakfast is almost over by now.” Pansy was sitting on the arm of a black leather couch leaning over Daphne and Tracey so they could all read  _ Witch Weekly _ together. She swung her foot as she stared at him. He could practically see the calculations racing behind her eyes.

Lifting his chin, Harry decided to treat this as his first test. Letting his friends know now would leave him better able to focus and protect himself from the reactions of others later. He would not falter. “I’m going to apologize to Hermione today.”

Eyes widening, Pansy slipped off the arm of the couch and onto the floor with a squawk. Batting hair out of her face, she came up onto her knees and stared at him. “What, seriously? It’s been months! I thought you’d decided to stew in regret and frustration forever, clinging to your pride and not even saying her name until  _ maybe  _ you were on your deathbed and the chance of dying of mortification became a moot point.”

“You know that if you apologize, Blaise will lose half of his jokes,” Daphne said with an edge of amusement in her voice. “He’ll have to come up with brand new material. He’ll also lose half his money.”

“I’ll win some though, so go for it, Harry,” Tracey said, closing the magazine around her finger and smirking up at him tongue in cheek.

Harry blinked and processed what they’d just said. “Wait, what? People were... betting on me?”

Tracey snorted “Of course they were, don’t you ever pay attention? Especially to the rich brats with too much money and not enough brains, like Draco, Blaise, Daphne, and Pansy.” She gestured to her friends.

“Hey!” Pansy glared.

Snatching away the  _ Witch Weekly _ , Daphne put her nose in the air. “Gambling and being irresponsible with our parents' money is a time-honored tradition in Slytherin.”

“Maybe amongst rich kids,” Tracey rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’re usually broke, Harry, but the rest of us use our measly allowance on the bets, giving into temptation when something juicy happens.” 

Nodding, Daphne started counting off on her fingers. “We bet on if and when you’d talk to Granger, if and when she’d talk to you, and on who’d apologize or if you’d both carry the grudge to your graves.”

Tracey smirked. “ _ I  _ said you’d finally give in and talk to her again in February and since this is the last weekend of the month, I should win something, though like Pansy I didn’t think you’d ever actually apologize. Just talk. In fact, I think Draco was the only one who put any money on you ever saying sorry. He didn’t put money down on a specific date though so if you go through with apologizing, we’re all going to owe him a lot of money.”

Harry couldn’t believe this. “You all suck.”

Pansy snorted and sat back up on the arm of the couch. “Yes, and? Everybody does it. I know for a fact that most of you have bet on whether I’ll give up on Draco soon or if he’ll finally succumb to my charms, which he  _ will _ . Any day now.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Pansy added, “And in the interest of full disclosure since it seems you’ve been living in ignorance, Blaise tried to claim that Granger fixing your glasses before the last game counted as her giving you an apology and that he should get a payout since he’d bet she would apologize in January, but Draco as a witness overruled him.” 

Giving Tracey a sideways glance, Pansy got an evil glint in her eye. “If you’ll wait a few more days to apologize, Tracey won’t get any money either.” 

“Hey!” Tracey protested, shoving Pansy off her perch and back onto the floor.

“I hate all of you,” Harry snapped, his face feeling redder than a tomato.

Tracey rolled her eyes. “Oh lighten up, Harry. It’s not a big deal.” 

Turning on his heel to leave with a huff, he ran into Flint standing in the doorway leading to the hall. “Sorry,” Harry said curtly.

“No problem.” The corner of Flint’s lips twitched up. “Since I thought you’d make up with the girl ages ago, I already lost my stake in the outcome. I don’t mind telling you that Granger just left the Great Hall and went towards the library. Good luck. I hope it works out.”

A wordless spurt of air escaped Harry’s clenched teeth.

“If she gets called up to play today, remember that we want Gryffindor to lose or tie,” Flint added, clapping Harry on the back and moving over to sink down in front of the roaring fire, nudging aside a lower-ranking seventh year, who picked up his book and moved to the nearest armchair instead, only the tightness around his eyes revealing his annoyance at having to move from the warmest spot in the dungeons in favor of the younger but more socially powerful Quidditch Captain.

Everyone in Slytherin was hoping against hope that today’s Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff Quidditch game would end in a tie, as unlikely as that was to happen once, much less twice in a single season. Ravenclaw’s team had already lost twice, so they were out of the running for the cup no matter how they did in their final game, though Slytherin was obviously cheering for them to beat Gryffindor in that match. Hufflepuff had one win going into today’s match, so if they won this one too they’d be ahead of Slytherin in the standings. If Gryffindor won they’d be tied with Slytherin, which wasn’t great but better than Slytherin being behind. However, if Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tied, Gryffindor would be behind and Hufflepuff would be tied with Slytherin. That wouldn’t be bad at all because Flint was confident that their team could win against the Hufflepuffs. Total points earned over the season only counted towards the cup when teams had equal numbers of wins and losses, so that probably wouldn’t come into play this year. If it did, Harry would have to delay catching the Snitch in their last game as long as possible to give his team a chance to earn the extra points needed to win. 

All of that combined to make the students in Slytherin rather invested in today’s game. Thinking of the conversations he’d been overhearing for weeks, Harry realized that he’d been woefully ignorant. Almost everyone was betting on some aspect of the game, from who’d win to number of goals to number of fouls. He just hadn’t realized that all of the times he’d heard someone say, “I bet you a sickle Hufflepuff wins,” they’d been betting actual money. 

No big deal. Betting on sports was fine. Or Draco betting real money on Lockhart falling out a window. That was fine too.

Betting on Harry ever being friends with Hermione again? NOT FINE. He was embarrassed, angry, ashamed, and secretly a little bit hurt.

Trying to distract himself with thoughts on Quidditch hadn’t worked. Sucking air in through his nose, face feeling like it was on fire and his belly full of acid, Harry sent a glare at the girls on the couch and barely stopped himself from doing something dangerous and stupid like glaring or even worse  _ swearing  _ at Flint before he stomped away into the hallway. 

He took the stairs up two at a time to work out some of his frustration and ducked into the Great Hall anyway just in case Flint had been lying because he actually did still have some skin in the game. He didn’t see Hermione at the sparsely populated Gryffindor table, just the stupid Weasley twins and a few students he didn’t know by name. 

Plan A—apologize to Hermione during breakfast—was now a bust. On to Plan B. He’d have to shift his behavior to account for her being the library, but it was still fine. Irritating, but fine.

Before he could leave, someone tugged on the back of his robes. “Hey.” 

Harry ripped himself free, almost choking himself as the collar pulled tight across his throat. It was like a spark to tinder. Why couldn’t people just leave him alone so he could go and apologize to Hermione? Why did they have to keep interrupting him? Turning around with a harsh cough and a wheeze, he scowled at Valeria standing behind him. “What do you want?” he snarled.

One dark brow arched over Valeria’s rapidly cooling expression. “Excuse me?”

Harry straightened his twisted robes and sucked on a tooth. Nothing was going right this morning. “Well? Did you place a bet too?” He hadn’t meant to accuse her, but he was too mad to keep his mouth shut.

“On what? That you’d lose your temper today? That’s a sucker’s bet.” She looked him up and down with pursed lips, taking in his nice robes, carefully styled hair, and furrowed brow before her expression shifted. “Okay, pause. Normally I’d rip you to shreds, but I think we’re having a miscommunication. Since I’m trying to be nicer since New Years, let’s start this conversation over again so we don’t start fighting. Unless you want a fight with me?” She tapped her palm with the tip of the wand he’d swear she hadn’t been holding a second ago.

_ Fight with Valeria? Did he want to die? No, not without apologizing to Hermione first, darnit.  _

Inhaling deeply, Harry blew out every bit of air in his lungs along with his angry thoughts in a long, slow stream until nothing was left and he was feeling light-headed, a technique she’d actually taught him during Viper School to manage his temper. He took in another breath and forced his shoulders down. “No, I don’t want to fight with you.” 

“Then sit down. We’re drawing attention.” Valeria put a hand on his back and firmly guided him to a place at the Slytherin table. Harry didn’t resist. He didn’t trust his tongue or temper around Hermione right now anyway. Most of the food had been picked over but Valeria poured him a cup of what turned out to be peppermint tea and put a slightly squashed chocolate-filled croissant on a plate for him before pouring herself a cup from the same teapot.

Sipping the hot tea, Harry felt the warmth slide all the way down his throat to his belly with a minty tingle. He took a bite of the croissant and sighed. “I have things I need to do this morning.” He glanced over at the doors.

Valeria eyed him with a thoughtful hum and added a slice of beans on toast to his plate along with sausage and some pears. “Eat first.”

“I’m on a schedule,” Harry said impatiently, shoving the rest of the croissant into his mouth. As soon as the warm chocolate oozed out and combined with the taste of buttery bread on his tongue, he realized that he was actually starving. He often forgot to pay attention to signals from his body. Harry swallowed and shoved an entire pear slice into his mouth. Maybe he would eat, he’d just do it quickly. He put a chunk of sausage into his mouth. It actually paired nicely with the pear.

“Your muggle manners are deplorable,” Valeria shook her head and rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to cram the food into your mouth. Eat slowly.” She took a dainty sip of her tea.

“Hey,” Harry swallowed the food in his mouth before saying more, “it’s being a growing boy in a hurry,  _ not  _ being raised muggle. For evidence I give you purebloods Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Ronald Weasley. They stuff their mouths at every meal and never chew with their mouths shut, much less wait to swallow before talking and spewing food all over the table.”

Valeria wrinkled her nose and curled her lip. “Fair point.”

“Also...” Harry looked down at his half-empty teacup as he finished quietly, “Hermione Granger has some of the loveliest table manners in school and she was raised by muggles.” 

There was a beat of silence before Valeria spoke. “I guess you have spent enough meals staring over at her to notice.” 

“Yeah…” Harry took a big bite of beans on toast and washed it down with the last of his tea. Wiping his mouth, he put down his napkin and faced Valeria. “I’m going to apologize to her today. I’m going to fix our friendship.” The more people he told, the less likely they were to be shocked and the less likely he was to chicken out or put it off again.

Eyes darkening, she dropped her eyes and stared into her teacup, sloshing the golden tea back and forth up to the rim but never quite over. Her dark hair had started to grow out again since she’d returned from Christmas, thick and tightly curling enough to hide the scar on her scalp. “Are you sure you really want to be associated with her again?” Putting down her teacup, she turned it so the handle was precisely parallel to the edge of the table.

Stomach souring, Harry put his hand flat on the table, pushing himself to his feet to leave. 

Valeria took a quick breath and put a single finger on the back of his hand, a silent request to hear her out but... not a demand. The finger exerted almost no pressure, unexpected considering Valeria’s usual battering ram approach. If she’d grabbed his arm he’d have shaken her off and stormed out, but the soft fingertip had him pausing and easing back down onto the bench to listen. “What?”

“We both know I’m not good at being nice, but I...” biting her lip, Valeria looked unexpectedly awkward, “I’m invested in you and—and that means I get to give you advice.” She took a nervous slurp of tea.

Harry flattened his lips, bracing himself for unwanted words about mudbloods and Gryffindors, but Valeria surprised him again as she put down her teacup with a clatter. 

“Look, Granger hurt you, really hurt you. She’s a big weakness for you and I don’t like that.” The corners of her lips tightened and pulled down as she glared at a ring of condensation on the table. “I don’t like you being so vulnerable. I don’t have a spell to protect you from that and I don’t want her to hurt you like that again.” 

Sighing, Harry fiddled with the fork next to his plate, rotating it to watch the tines catch the shine from the fake sun in the enchanted ceiling overhead as he marshalled his thoughts. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think it’s impossible to not be vulnerable with friends, at least the really good ones. It’s true that Hermione and I hurt each other, but not on purpose. In fact, I owe her an apology much more than she owes me one. It probably sounds stupid, but before we argued she was one of the few people in my life who cared about me as ‘just Harry’ instead of The-Boy-Who-Lived, Slytherin-Reborn, or The-Next-Dark-Lord. I miss that.” 

“I’m trying to understand,” Valeria said slowly.

Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Being around her made me smarter and stronger. It made me want to be better and, most importantly, it made me happy. I miss her. I miss being her friend. Good friends protect and support each other, or at least I think they’re supposed to. Hermione, Blaise, and Draco were the first friends I ever really had. You know what a mess Draco is,” Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t keep the small smile off his lips, “but even so, they taught me that good friends support you, forgive you for not being perfect, and work to turn your frowns into smiles. I haven’t been a good friend to Hermione this year, but I want to— _ need _ to be better. I need to be someone I can be proud to see staring back at me in the mirror. Not just because she deserves better, but because I do too.” 

Feeling self-conscious at revealing so much, he threaded his fingers together and squeezed, watching his knuckles turn from red to white. “Does that make sense?” 

He looked up and saw the Weasley twins standing at a nearby table eating pastry scraps. They looked close enough to have overheard him. He went hot and then cold. They shuffled off casually as soon as he looked up, but it made him intensely uncomfortable.

Tattooing her fingers on the table, Valeria recaptured his attention with her next words. “I don’t trust her but… I do trust you, Harry. I don’t have much experience with good friends either but I—I want you to know that I care about ‘just Harry’ too. I’m also your friend.” 

Ducking his head, Harry felt unaccountably shy. “Thanks, Valeria. If I haven’t said it before, I’m really glad I got to know you this year. I hope you know that you’re my friend too and if there’s ever anything I can do to help you, all you have to do is ask. I mean, I might try to talk you out of murdering somebody, but I’d still totally help you make them wish they’d never been born and, if I’m too late, I’d help you hide the body and save my lecture for another day.”

When he looked up Valeria was watching him with warm eyes and a crooked smile. “You know, this year is the happiest I’ve ever been, thanks in part to you, Harry. You are a good friend. I hope your apology to Granger works out and she sees that for herself.” 

The two of them stood up and started to walk out. Valeria’s expression closed down into its usual cool elegance as she straightened the seams running down her arms until they fell over her wrists just so. “If not, I’m more than happy to hex her... or anyone else you think deserves it.” She gave him a vicious smirk. “Though I probably won’t wait before giving you a lecture, knowing me. Both of us like our speeches.” She saluted him with her wand. “Good luck.” 

In the entrance hall Valeria took the doorway leading down to the dungeon while Harry turned and made his way up the main staircase towards the library. 

He asked a Ravenclaw on her way out of the library if she’d seen Hermione. The girl nodded and helpfully pointed towards a far corner where the books were so old that the English might as well have been Mongolian given how difficult it was to read. The only reason they weren’t in the restricted section was because they supposedly didn’t contain any dangerous spells or illegal information and thus didn’t meet Madam Pince’s strict criteria for being locked up. 

Draco and Harry had tried to look at a few of the creature books back there over the break in their search for bobbing fangfaces and basilisks, but most of the books were so old that even with the preservation spells the images had started to fade and they had to keep a dictionary cracked open just to make sense of the descriptions. It had been too much work and not enough fun. He wondered what Hermione was looking for back there.

Brushing down the front of his robes to make sure he hadn’t dropped any crumbs, Harry squared his shoulders and went looking for Hermione. He’d just caught sight of her downturned head at the end of the next row as she frantically scribbled down information from the book open on her knee when Jonah Skipper’s dark blond mop popped up next to her, coming from the opposite direction. 

“Hermione, where’ve you been? You idiot, stop studying and get up,” Skipper’s voice echoed through the stacks as he poked her in the shoulder. “We’ve got to get to the locker room. You’re lucky Wood made me come looking for you before you missed the game, not that we’re going to need you, but come on!” 

Where did Skipper get off talking to Hermione like that? Next time Harry caught him alone he was going to make the other Seeker regret it. In fact— 

Pausing to duck into the nearest row, Harry slid his wand through a gap in the books, aimed at Skipper, and cast a Cramp and Gas jinx (called a CAG in Viper school), wishing he had time to do something worse. The brownish-green light hit Skipper in the back and he grimaced, putting a hand on his stomach as it gave a loud, unhappy gurgle.

Hermione frowned up at Skipper, looking agitated. “Sorry, it’s just that I’ve discovered a creature that migh—”

_ BPPPfffhhtt— _ ! Skipper’s loud fart interrupted her mid-word. His face went bright red. “Who cares? Figure it out later. The game is starting soon. Unless you want to be kicked off the team, come on!”

“Oh, fine!” Eyes watering, Hermione pressed the back of her hand to her nose and shoved the book she’d been reading back onto the shelf, almost dropping the notes and inkpot balanced on her knee.

Harry rushed down the aisle, picking up his pace. Surely she could spare him just a couple of minutes to talk. She had to want an excuse to get away from Skipper and the game wasn’t actually starting for an hour yet. Plan B was ever so much better than Plan C—apologizing in the hallway front of the Gryffindor locker room where the rest of her team might show up and start heckling. 

Hermione folded over her notes and crammed them into the pocket of her robes, the creamy corner of the parchment sticking out like a spilled dollop of whipped cream. Skipper capped her ink and tossed it into her bag, plucking the quill from her hand and flinging it in there too before closing the flap and stuffing it into her arms. Grabbing her elbow, he yanked her to her feet and off in the opposite direction of Harry, disappearing behind a shelf with a rank  _ BPPPfffhhtt— _ ! 

Seeing Plan B going down the drain, Harry ran forward but couldn’t see her anywhere, despite following the trail of stench. Growling, he rushed from the library—avoiding Madam Pince’s glare—and ran down the hallway, taking a secret passageway behind a statue that led to a slide that took you all the way down to the ground floor. Landing on his feet, Harry took off at a steady lope for the hallway outside the Quidditch locker rooms, trying to head them off. Unfortunately he ran into Peeves and had to backtrack in another direction before the ghost saw him and threw raw eggs at his head. 

By the time Harry had worked his way back around he was just in time to see the Gryffindor Quidditch portrait closing on Hermione and Skipper. Plan C was a bust.

“Son of a Snitch!” Turning, he kicked the wall hard. Harry was down to Plan D. It just kept getting worse. And now his foot hurt.

“I beg your pardon, what did my wall ever do to you!” Snapped the broomstick flyer in the portrait overhead.

Breathing heavily, resting his weight on his good foot, Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out his gift for Hermione. Looking down at the scarlet and gold fabric—colors he’d learned to hate over the last two years of schooling—he breathed in through his nose and blew out a hard breath. He’d promised himself to go through with this, no matter what. By now all of his friends and most of Slytherin probably knew he planned on apologizing to Hermione today. Soon the whole school would know. If he didn’t go through with it, she’d hear the rumors and just be hurt all over again. He refused to let that happen. 

“What’ve you got there, Potter?” asked the detestable voice of Fred Weasley (or George, he could never tell them apart).

Before Harry could stuff the item back into his pocket, it was plucked out of his hand and tossed to the Weasley twin farther down the hall. “Well well, take a look at this.” The redhead unfurled it and showed it to his brother.

“Give it back!” Harry snapped, feeling the tips of his ears going hot.

“Is this a prank?” asked the closest twin, looking down his freckled nose at Harry with a crooked frown.

“No.” Glaring up at him, Harry tried to go around but was stopped by a hand on his chest pushing him back. 

“Then what is it?”

“What does it look like?” Harry clenched his jaw and fisted his wand inside his pocket. Two to one wasn’t great odds but he wasn’t exactly a novice at being ganged up on either.

“You tell us.”

Lips pressing tight, he calculated if he could get away with hexing the twins right before the game. Losing would put him into the infirmary and make him look both stupid and weak, not the impression he wanted to leave today. If he succeeded Flint would love it, but Professor McGonagall would almost certainly give him detention for putting both her Beaters out of commission right before the game and Hermione would probably be miffed, making his apology all the harder, especially if he had to spend precious time locked away being punished by Filch or trying to chase Hermione down if she decided to avoid him. He would break into her common room to try and talk to her as a final resort—either under his invisibility cloak (Plan N), by charming a gullible Gryffindor (Plan O), or after stealing Polyjuice Potion from Snape’s locked cabinet and potioning himself to look like one of the Gryffindors (hopefully not a Weasley) (Plan P). 

Harry had never prepared for anything in his life as much as he’d prepared for this apology. He thought that Hermione would be proud if she knew, not that he intended for her to find out since it was also sort of embarrassing. The things he had to do got harder as he went farther down the alphabet. Better not to risk it by choking now.

It hurt to swallow down his temper, but he did it. He used honesty again, since a Gryffindor wouldn’t expect it from a Slytherin and it might help his cause later. Besides, a good truth was better than a bad lie. “It’s for Hermione in case Skipper gets hurt again and she’s called up to play Seeker.”

A Weasley snorted. “So you’re really going to apologize to her publicly then? Humiliate yourself?”

Grinding his teeth, the back of his neck feeling clammy, Harry nodded curtly and glared. “Yes. She’s worth it to me. Now give it back.”

The brothers exchanged a look. “Hermione has been rather sad this year—”

“—pathetic really—” 

“—not to mention that we’ve been feeling a tad—”

“—guilty for ruining your friendship—”

“—plus irritated with Skipper for—”

“—being such a sucky Seeker—”

“—and horrible human being—”

“—really he’s a total git.”

“Friendly fire?” They finished in tandem and exchanged toothy smiles.

Harry’s head swivelled back and forth between the two of them. He was getting dizzy. And confused. “What?” Had they just agreed to help him?

“Cheers, Potter.” The two boys flanked him and slapped him hard on the shoulders, making his knees buckle and sending him staggering.

“We’ll do our part if you—”

“—do yours, snakeface.”

“Not scarhead?” The other twin asked, cocking his head to the side and tossing the stolen present over his shoulder. Harry dived to catch it, scared it would break if it hit the ground too hard. He’d spent all month getting the charm work just right.

“Nah, scars aren’t that bad. Slytherins on the other hand….”

By the time Harry looked back up, one of them had already whispered the password to the correct player in the portrait and the door to the locker room was swinging open. The two disappeared inside without another backwards glance.

Cracking his neck from side to side, Harry blew out his breath. Well then. Turning, he left for the Quidditch pitch. If he was going to do this, he was doing it right. He had to get there early to make sure he got the best seat for maximum visibility.

-oo0oo-

“So what’s your big apology again? Is there something I’m missing?” Blaise put a hand on Harry’s shoulder to balance himself as he stood up and looked around at where Harry had planted himself in the center of the front row of seats. They were in a tower with green flags decorating it. On the front bench sat Vincent, Greg, Draco, Pansy, Harry, Blaise, Millie, and Daphne, with the rest of the benches up behind them taken mostly by Slytherin students with a few Ravenclaw friends mixed in. There were no Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors.

“You’re overthinking this, mate. That’s been your problem all year. I’d have found you some flowers and chocolates. Girls love those. Put them with a fancy card and a little poem and all their anger just melts away.” Blaise smiled and winked at a group of girls sitting a few rows up, setting off a storm of giggles. He tossed his scarf over his shoulder jauntily before sitting back down.

One of the girls leaned forward and called daringly, “You and Potter can practice with me anytime, Zabini.” Her friends all broke into giggles.

A girl sitting on a different bench spoke up with annoyance in her voice. “Oh please! Potter shouldn’t even be talking to a Gryffindor, much less giving one an apology. She made us lose the last game! It’s stupid. He’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid. Shut up and maybe he’ll just forget about it,” called a surly male voice.

“Seriously, who cares about Potter? The rest of us are trying to watch the game,” snapped another boy.

Everyone took that as an invitation to put their two knuts in. They all now knew that Harry was planning to apologize to Hermione today. It would hopefully make the next part less shocking to them and thus less dangerous for himself. He didn’t relish getting cursed in the back. He chewed on the ragged edge of his thumbnail and watched the sky for Skipper and the Weasleys. 

“Enough!” Draco suddenly jumped to his feet, beating off Pansy’s hands with awkward flailing that looked like he was trying to shoo away a swarm of flies. “Stop touching me!” Bits of his gelled blond hair stood up like horns from where she must’ve tried to run her fingers through it. Draco shoved at Greg, making him switch places so Draco could sit closer to the end with his bodyguards on either side. Pansy pouted next to Harry and crossed her arms with a huff, not noticing the sympathetic look Greg sent her way. She’d spent the entire game so far trying to slip her hands around Draco’s arm and put her head on his shoulder, cooing nauseating compliments in his ear in hopes of wearing him down. Every time Draco shoved her off she’d bumped into Harry sitting next to her, once almost making his glasses fall off his nose to the ground far below. Harry was glad Draco had finally moved so their drama would stop and he could focus on Hermione and the next part of his plan. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Millie asked him skeptically from the other side of Blaise.

“Yes, I know what I’m doing, Millie,” Harry grumbled, bitterly staring up at where stupid Skipper still flew in the sky. Occasionally Skipper’s broom rocked and he’d adjust his seat uncomfortably as the CAG jinx continued to run its course, making his teammates screw up their faces in disgust, clap their hands over their noses, and give him a wide berth. Harry had thought he knew what he was doing, but it was looking more and more like the Weasley twins had tricked him. It was discouraging, but not a deal-breaker. He still had Plans E, F, and G for after the game depending on which team won or if they tied, but now that he was here he really wanted to do Plan D. He wanted Hermione to see him do Plan D and understand just how sorry he really felt and how much he wanted to support her and be her friend again.

“It’s not  _ Millie  _ and I say you should’ve gotten her a book. Granger always has her nose in a book.” 

“Ha, even Harry is calling you Millie now!” Pansy leaned over Harry to stick out her tongue. Millie narrowed her eyes and thinned her lips in annoyance.

“I think Millie sounds cute,  _ molto carina, _ ” Blaise said with a sideways smile and gentle nudge that made Millie’s round cheeks go bright pink. 

“I agree. It’s much better than switching from Theo to  _ Theodore _ ,” Daphne grinned at Millie and rolled her eyes. 

“He’s still serious about that?” Pansy wrinkled her nose and adjusted her beret so it sat at a more fashionable angle on her sleek black hair.

“Ever since his thirteenth birthday earlier this month.” Blaise nodded and made a face. “If he thinks it will get him more respect he’s dead wrong. I actually respect him less now, to be honest. I mean, Theodore? Really?”

Just then the gameplay overhead finally heated up. Harry leaned forward, putting a hand on the railing as the Hufflepuff Chasers bunched up, Quaffle in possession, and shot towards the Gryffindor goal like a triple-tipped arrow. The Gryffindor defense scrambled into an obviously well-practiced play that forced the Hufflepuff players up to avoid them, sending them right into the path of the Seekers who had the bad luck to be passing overhead at that exact moment. The Gryffindor Chasers boxed the Hufflepuffs in on all sides as the two Seekers frantically tried to swerve out of the way, but the press of bodies was such that all of them were funneled back down towards the Weasley Beaters. Just before the mass of players reached them, the Weasleys began spinning their brooms like mini-cyclones, breaking up the Hufflepuff Chasers’ arrowpoint formation and sucking in the two Seekers as collateral damage. Brooms and players flew in all directions. 

In all of the commotion, one of the Weasleys’ Beater bats “accidentally” whacked Skipper into the other brother, whose broom then “accidentally” smacked Skipper in the back of the head, flinging him off his broom and into the arms of the Hufflepuff Chaser flying below who’d managed to dodge through the trap with the Quaffle still in hand. 

“Yes! Finally!” Harry jumped to his feet and threw his hands up into the air. 

The Hufflepuff Chaser had been about to throw the Quaffle through the Gryffindor goal when Skipper landed on top of her. The impact mashed their faces together in a parody of a kiss. The Chaser instantly dropped the Quaffle and reared back in horror. 

Mouth trailing drool and eyes crossing, Skipper flopped forward and almost slid off until the Chaser hauled him back up onto her broom at the last second. She spit several times, trying to clean her mouth and not seeming to care if the spit landed on the boy in her lap.

Grinning viciously, Harry plopped back into his seat and pressed a hand to his chest. His heart felt like it was about to jump out of his throat. “Thank Merlin, I was starting to give up on those redheaded tosspots pulling through for me.”

“What?” Blaise looked sideways at Harry in confusion. 

Wood scooped up the falling Quaffle and tossed it behind his back to Johnson, who tucked it under her arm and shot forward, dodging through the still disoriented players. One of the Weasleys was hurling chunks over the side of his broom while his brother laughed and tried to aim his vomiting at the other players. Johnson threw the Quaffle towards the central goal hoop. It skittered across the Hufflepuff Keeper’s fingertips and barely scraped through the hoop to score a point for Gryffindor. 

Harry happily joined the rest of Slytherins in loudly booing the Gryffindor goal, though he was more interested in what was happening with Skipper. A timeout was called and the Hufflepuff Chaser dumped Skipper off in front of the medical tent without a backwards glance, scrubbing her arm across her mouth as she rejoined her team. Skipper landed on the muddy grass and didn’t stir even when Madam Pomprey bustled up. 

“Bet you didn’t see that betrayal coming, now did you,” Harry gloated. 

Grabbing Harry’s arm, Blaise’s eyes went wide. “Wait wait wait, you knew that was going to happen? You somehow got the Weasleys to hit Skipper in the head on purpose?”

“No way,” Millie breathed from Blaise’s other side, mouth falling open as she leaned forward to stare at Harry.

Harry wagged his eyebrows. “You should never underestimate me.”

Putting a hand on the railing, Pansy leaned around in front of him to see his face. “Harry! How did you convince a Gryffindor to backstab a teammate? Especially in the middle of a game?”

“Surprisingly, it was easier than I thought,” Harry smirked, spinning it for all he was worth.

“Merlin’s pants,” Blaise swore admiringly. “You make our house proud.”

Millie still looked shocked. “But why this game? Why not save it for something important?” 

“What a waste of good blackmail!” Draco called from the end of the bench, looking crabby at being left out of the gossip and stuck talking to just Crabbe and Goyle. 

Blaise sat back in his seat and gave a crack of laughter. “Granger! This is somehow all part of Harry’s big apology.” He shook his head and turned to Harry. “You’re crazy, mate. A Gryffindor won’t appreciate such a cunning and convoluted plan. She probably won’t even realize it was you. I still say you should’ve gone for the flowers. If you’ll wait a few days I’ll even buy them from the money I was going to owe Tracey instead. I’d rather give it to you than her.”

“No way,” Harry frowned and shook his head. “I promised myself I’d apologize to her today. I’m not going back on that no matter what.” 

Movement on the field below grabbed his attention. Eyes narrowing behind his glasses, Harry pushed Pansy back into her seat so he could see and leaned forward eagerly, watching Madam Pomfrey as she examined Skipper. After a minute she floated over a stretcher, saying something to the hovering Oliver Wood. Harry’s breathing quickened.

Draco leaned on Greg’s legs to better see Harry’s face and let out a loud groan. “Wait, I know that look. The nutter’s not done yet. He’s got something even more crazy planned. Harry, don’t embarrass me!” He pulled out his wand from his robes and pressed the handle against his forehead, closing his eyes as if pained and dramatically collapsing back into his seat. “My father follows these matches. Have some pity!”

Breath coming quickly, Harry stood up and slid his hand into his pocket, casting a slashing look from left to right. “Everyone…now that the moment has come...please remember that you’re my friends and you’re supposed to support me... just like I try to support you.” 

Vincent scoffed, his mouth twisting petulantly. 

Harry glared at him. “If that’s not enough, let me remind you that I’m Valeria’s favorite and totally willing to take advantage of that fact.” 

“This is gonna be so bad,” Pansy moaned, pulling out her wand. The rest of his friends quickly followed.

“Why does Harry have to be like this?” someone groused just as Lee Jordan finally started his announcement. Harry was too busy staring at the dark tunnel leading out of the Gryffindor locker room to figure out who.

“Gryffindor Seeker Jonah Skipper is once again too injured to continue—surprise surprise—so Gryffindor is calling up the heroic reserve Seeker who saved them in their last game... _ Hermione Granger _ !” 

Out of the dark tunnel zipped the girl Harry had been anxiously waiting and hoping to see, the girl at the center of all his scheming. As Hermione started flying a lap around the field, the jeers of Slytherin and Hufflepuff competed with the cheers of Gryffindor. 

Harry realized that he needed to stop staring and jump to it. His time had come. Blood surged in his veins and the world went sharp and bright. Reaching into his pocket, Harry pulled out the small flag he’d made to show support for and celebrate his friend—Gryffindor Seeker Hermione Granger. He shook the flag once to unfurl the fabric. Extending his arm up and out over the railing, he cast an _Engorgio_ , making the flag grow until the scarlet and gold fabric was impossible to miss in the sea of green Slytherin scarves and banners. 

The stands all around him exploded into movement. Distantly he heard angry and disgusted exclamations, swearing, and incantations. Since nothing hit him, he ignored everything but what he was doing and worked faster. He needed to give Hermione enough time to see the flag before someone made him drop it or cast a spell past him to destroy it.

Completely focused on his task, Harry activated the charms he’d painstakingly worked into the flag over the last month during his every spare moment. Unlike the Hufflepuff boy who he’d stolen the idea from, this wasn’t just a simple flag in the Seeker’s house colors. That would be almost insulting to a girl as intelligent and complex as Hermione. No, this was an animated billboard aimed directly at the heart of Hermione Granger.

As the first charm activated, a life-sized golden Snitch appeared in the corner of the flag and started flying around the scarlet fabric bordered in gold. In the center of the flag stood a letter _ H _ shaped like a bookcase filled with books and a  _ G _ shaped like a Snitch curving in flight. Each letter was thickly outlined in neon yellow. 

The second charm sequence represented the sky where they’d forged their friendship. The yellow outlining the letters shifted from artificial neon to the glow of the horizon in the split second before sunrise. As the sun appeared to rise on the flag the outline thickened. The bright sunlight outlined the HG before sliding into sunset with the blinding yellow fading to orange and red, becoming a diffuse purple that slid to blue and then black. The black spread across the entire flag until only Hermione’s initials remained. Glittering stars appeared along with shooting stars and a moon with the wings of a Snitch, only to fade before the fireworks exploded in joyous celebration, trailing corkscrew curls of fire in the shape of her hair. The Snitch dodged through the fireworks and in and out of the letters, reshuffling the books on the bookshelf and making the G spin. As the last of the fireworks faded, the black field lightened back to the original scarlet. Ten seconds passed and then the glow of sunrise outlined the letters all over again. 

Raising the flag high, Harry waited for Hermione to look up from flying her lap around the pitch and see it. Would she like it? Would she understand? 

_ Please let her understand; let her understand his apology and  _ accept  _ it. _

Hermione flew closer, her brown curls were tied back from her face in two french braids that gleamed in the sun with copper and gold highlights. Unlike the rest of the stadium, the stands at his back were ominously quiet, so quiet that he could hear Hermione’s Quidditch leathers creak as she saw the flag and instantly pulled up her broom in front of him. She inhaled audibly when their eyes met for an endless second before the movement of the flag drew her gaze back down. 

She mouthed the letters as if doubting her eyesight,  _ “H G.” _ As the charm cycled through colors and animations, tears began filling her warm brown eyes. Her lips curled up until her mouth split open and she was beaming, a huge smile that made her teeth gleam and her eyes sparkle. She laughed and two crystalline tears slid down her pink cheeks. 

His stomach cramped. Were those tears good or bad? He wanted to reach out and dry her face, but she was too far away. Then she looked up and their eyes connected with a jolt and it felt like there was no distance between them at all. He found himself smiling back at her helplessly, sharing the joy of the moment.

Distantly he noted the other Quidditch stands getting louder as people craned their necks to get a better look at what was happening. Sound bounced and echoed from tower to tower and over the muddy grass, but somehow Harry and Hermione floated together in a quiet, peaceful, and happy sphere, united as one.

Harry still needed to say the words out loud. It was part of his promise. He had to tell her,  _ I’m sorry _ ...but the moment had stretched too long and thin and the filament connecting their minds and hearts finally broke under the pressure. 

Madam Hooch was blowing her whistle and Wood was bellowing at Hermione to get up into position and there just. wasn’t. time.

Hermione gave a hard exhale, looked down at the flag he’d made for her one more time, and bit her lip on a crooked smile. Then she rocketed up into the sky, all without a single word being exchanged. 

All of the strength left Harry’s legs and he collapsed back into his seat, remembering just in time to cast a Sticking Charm on the flagpole so it wouldn’t fall off the balcony. He tapped the indents in the shaft that froze the animations in place so they wouldn’t distract Hermione while she was searching for the Snitch, a last minute addition. He felt shaky with elation. She’d smiled at him! He still had to say the words, but for the first time in months his future was looking bright.

Gameplay resumed and Harry realized that the stands around him were still suspiciously quiet. Glancing to the side, he saw a red-faced Pansy twisted in her seat and glaring behind them. She held an extra wand in her left hand. Farther down, between a constipated-looking Greg and Vincent, slumped a mortified looking Draco. He’d slid down in his seat and cupped his hand over his forehead as if trying to hide his face from all the spectators. There were two extra wands in his lap. 

Looking over confirmed that the other Vipers all had extra wands. They also all had unhappy expressions and all but Draco faced the stands at his back. Biting his lip, Harry twisted to see what was happening and grimaced. Most of the students were spattered with strings of white goo like they’d been sneezed on by a giant with a head cold. The source of the goo was obviously Valeria, who stood against the side of the stands with a terrifying expression on her face and a pile of gooey wands sitting at her feet. This was both better and worse than he’d expected.

Clearing his throat, Harry forced himself to stand up and face everyone. He was going to have to give a speech to try and fix this. As much as he wanted to focus only on Hermione right now, he needed to do a bit of work first if he didn’t want his life to become even more hellish going forward. He couldn’t finish apologizing or rebuild his friendship with Hermione if he spent the rest of the school year flat on his back in the hospital wing. 

People were angry and upset. From the outside his action of planting a huge scarlet and gold flag in the middle of Slytherin territory might look like a betrayal of their House. It wasn’t. This wasn’t about Slytherin and Gryffindor at all. It was about Harry and Hermione. He wasn’t the least bit ashamed of what he’d just done. Harry wasn’t a traditional Slytherin, but then again, maybe he didn’t have to be. Maybe none of them had to be.

Mind racing over what to say, he reminded himself to use compliments along with shared goals and fears to sway his listeners. He needed to channel Draco at his most cocky, Blaise at his most flattering, and Flint at his most powerful, mixed with a bit of charm and gravitas gleaned from sneakily reading historical romance novels over Pansy’s shoulder (they were surprisingly enjoyable but he didn’t think his already shaky reputation could withstand that opinion becoming public). 

Looking out over the hostile faces, he straightened his shoulders, forced himself to give a small, confident smile, and inclined his head. “Thank you for your support today. It means a lot to me.” He ignored the angry and disbelieving looks he received from their goo-splattered faces and gestured to his friends. “You have experienced first-hand the quality and talents of my allies. Like Salazar Slytherin, they are resourceful, cunning, and ambitious, leading by example instead of falling into the tired old roles limiting what a Slytherin is allowed to be and do.” He could see Pansy preening from the corner of his eye.

Putting his hands on his hips, Harry leaned forward as if imparting a secret and paused to make sure they were listening, one of Draco’s favorite tricks. “Were you shocked today that I was willing to go so far to achieve my goal?” A goal he hadn’t technically achieved yet since Hermione hadn’t said she forgave him, but there was no reason to admit that to these people, especially when a few heads had cautiously started to look more curious than homicidal. “So was the rest of the school. Keeping them off-balance isn’t a bad thing.” 

He dropped his hands back to his sides, trying to make it look natural. “There are as many paths to power as there are types of power.” Flint and Terence had been talking about Quidditch and cheating both on and off the field, but the words from their argument worked equally well in this context with just a little tweaking. “The other houses may have forgotten that, trying to limit us Slytherins to one path and one sterotype, but we don’t have to live down to their expectations. There’s nothing cunning about doing exactly what’s expected. Slytherins shouldn’t be cliches.” He cast a scathing look at some of the worst of the insular pureblood bullies. “School doesn’t last forever, you know. If we don’t make friends and allies in other houses as resources, if we don’t learn to understand different types of people and points of view so we can work with and lead them effectively, the power we gain here will be flimsy at best and temporary at worst. The lessons and traditions of the past should shape us,” he said as a sop to the narrowmindedness of purebloods, “but they aren’t meant to confine us. We can be better. We can be more.”

Harry was feeling pretty good about his speech until he glanced to the side to see Pansy arch a brow at him and whisper out the corner of her mouth, “What’s that got to do with the flag?”

Face going hot, Harry got down off his metaphorical soapbox and cleared his throat, looking around at the stands. “Look, all of this spectacle is because I’m trying to apologize and get my friend back. As you can see, there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t risk for a friend. By the same token, there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t risk to take down an enemy. I hope in the days and years to come you will choose to be, if not my friend, then at least a neutral ally. Once again, thank you.” Trying to look confident instead of fumbling, he sat back down. 

Valeria cast a spell that made the goo melt away before announcing abruptly, “I count myself lucky to be a friend and ally of Harry Potter. I hope the rest of you will take his words to heart. Many of you showed admirable restraint and thoughtfulness today.” She looked around and then toed the pile of wands at her feet. “The rest of you who...accidentally...misplaced their wands can collect them from me on the way out with no repercussions. That said, if you tattle about this to a Professor I’ll make your life hell.” Half the crowd flinched at the look on her face and a few people whimpered.

Walking to the end of Harry’s row, Valeria held out her hand expectantly. The Vipers passed down the wands they’d taken from people presumably trying to hex Harry in the back. She tossed them into her pile and smiled at the crowd with a hint of teeth, making several people squeak in fear and someone muffle a sob. “Let’s go back to enjoying the game, shall we?”

Harry looked up at the sky to see Hermione and the Hufflepuff Seeker flying on opposite sides of the stadium, still looking for the Snitch. Good. He was glad he hadn’t missed her doing something impressive. No one had scored while he’d been distracted with his speech. Like the audience, the players kept casting looks at him and his scarlet flag. Harry tugged his green and silver scarf a little higher on his neck. He didn’t like all of the attention now that he was finished saying his piece, even though it was for a good cause.

“Hey Harry, is it easy to turn the movement on that flag on and off?” Blaise asked with a sly look, not seeming to hold a grudge about what had just happened.

Nodding, Harry pointed to the indents on the flagpole. “Yeah, I made it so you just have to tap it here. Why?”

“If they’re going to be looking over here anyway, why not use it to distract the players on purpose?”

“Are you suggesting we cheat?”

Blaise looked from left to right with exaggeration before leaning forward and saying loudly, “Yes, Harry, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.” He sat back and cocked his head to the side with a smirk. “So?”

“No distracting Hermione,” Harry said firmly, “but everyone else?” He shrugged and waved. “Be my guest.”

Grinning, Blaise tapped the indent on the flagpole, making the Snitch on the flag zip around the fabric. The Hufflepuff Seeker’s head snapping towards them and she dived. Blaise tapped it off again just as the yellow-clad Seeker pulled up sharply in front of the flag. He smirked at her and winked. Flushing red, she scowled and huffed as she realized her mistake. 

Hermione looked over sharply and gave a quick smile at seeing the flag (or seeing Harry? Hopefully?) before returning to her search for the Snitch.

“Ooh, give me a try,” Pansy said, flipping the animation on and off, on and off. The Gryffindor Chasers got distracted looking over at the flickering in the corners of their eyes and fumbled a pass, allowing Hufflepuff to steal the Quaffle and score. “Why haven’t we ever tried something like this before? We should do this again next game,” she said with relish.

Millie grinned evilly and leaned forward to be heard over the laughter and jeering behind them. “Definitely. Hooch might try to make flashing animations illegal, so we should work on how to get around that if it happens. Maybe even work something into the player’s robes. I have some ideas.”

Flashing a thumbs up, Pansy went back to toggling the animations, sending out shiny little bubbles from her wand tip every time Hufflepuff got the Quaffle close to Keeper Oliver Wood. “C’mon, Wood. Look at the pretty little flag and the bubbles. Screw up a catch.”

Reaching the limits of his temper, Oliver Wood glared over at Pansy with his teeth bared in an angry grimace just as a Hufflepuff Chaser slid up from below, caught the Quaffle thrown by her teammate, and sent it sailing behind Wood into the hoop. Spinning to see what had happened, Wood’s face went as scarlet as his uniform. He shook his fist at both Hufflepuff and Slytherin, swearing up a storm as his broom jerked back and forth in rage. Gryffindor was now trailing Hufflepuff by more than sixty points.

“Look at him go!” Blaise crowed as the rest of them laughed, including Harry, who still bitterly remembered the large bruise on his side and back from their last game when Wood had moved into Harry’s path and stopped, making Harry slam into Wood’s broom handle. Since only Harry had been moving when the collision happened, it wasn’t technically a foul. Accidents happened, but the smug look and suggestion that Harry leave Quidditch to his elders and run back home for his pacifier had made it clear that what happened had been on purpose.

Someone tapped Harry on the shoulder. Looking back, he saw Reyansh Ahuja leaning down from two rows up. Harry was instantly on his guard. “Can I have a go with that flag, Potter? I’m bored and rather dislike the Hufflepuff Seeker,” the Prefect said. Lips thinning, Ahuja sent a dark look in the Seeker’s direction before turning back to Harry and arching his brow. There was a ripple of suppressed interest as the nearby students observed the interaction. Ahuja had a lot of power and influence in Slytherin.

Shocked, Harry blinked at him for several seconds before responding. “Um—ah, sure! Just make sure it’s off when Hermione’s looking this way but otherwise… go wild, Ahuja.”

The Prefect inclined his head with a slight smile, his dark eyes gleaming. “Thank you. You’re ambitious and interesting. You may call me Reyansh. I like not being bored.”

“Great. Call me Harry.” Dazed, Harry cancelled the Sticking Charm, passed back the flag, and showed him how it worked. It was both exciting and slightly surreal to see a pureblood Slytherin Prefect like Reyansh Ahuja, someone who could trace his ancestry back to royal court wizards in India, waving a flag for a muggleborn witch in Gryffindor, even if it was to get back at a Hufflepuff.

Reyansh did manage to distract the Seeker he disliked enough to make her dive at the flag again. She was so angry she refused to even look at the Slytherin tower anymore. Huffing and muttering under her breath, she moved to the other side of the stadium in a huff. 

Thus she completely missed the Snitch when it came to hover above them as if curious to see the flag for itself.

“Your turn, I think.” Chuckling, Reyansh tossed the flag back to Harry, who turned on all of the animations and waved the flag back and forth wildly to get Hermione’s attention. As soon as she looked over he turned the light show off and pointed towards the Snitch desperately, hoping it would be enough.

It was.

Grinning, Hermione sped towards them, swerving around a Bludger hit by a Hufflepuff Beater and following the twisty path of the Snitch. The Hufflepuff Seeker realized what was happening too late, turning to join the chase from the other side of the pitch. Hermione flattened herself to her broom and tucked her feet back against the bristles—a position Harry had taught her back in September to pick up more speed. She corkscrewed into a dive, pulling up sharply as the Snitch broke left and up. Throat tight, Harry watched Hermione’s hand snap out—fast as a snake—and close around the Golden Snitch. 

She’d done it! Harry cheered and waved his flag. The people around him grumbled but didn’t boo or cheer. He was too Slytherin to really be happy about Gryffindor winning, but this wasn’t about Gryffindor. It was about Hermione and being happy for his friend. The fact that she turned to look at him before anyone else to wave the Snitch in her hand and share a smile had his stomach doing cartwheels and a big grin stretching his cheeks. They were forced to break eye contact when her team piled on top of her in celebration, laughing and screaming. 

Harry wished he could join her on the field, but he didn’t trust her teammates to be sympathetic to his cause. Oliver Wood for one would probably go for his wand the next time Harry crossed his path and he wasn’t so sure if the Weasley twins were still happy about their bargain considering how Slytherin had used the flag to purposely distract their players from scoring. Then again, it had led to the Hufflepuff Seeker getting distracted and Hermione winning the game, so really, they should be thanking him. 

Sighing impatiently, he shrunk the flag back down to its original size and tucked it into his pocket, turning and leaving the stands with his friends, making sure to quietly thank Valeria on his way out. At least he now felt fairly confident that Hermione would be willing to listen to his apology. His plan was almost finished, he just had to say the words. He kept reciting the apology in his mind, determined to say it perfectly without a single stutter. Hermione deserved perfect.

-oo0oo-

Harry ate his lunch slowly, head popping up every time a Gryffindor came into the Great Hall only to slouch down again when it wasn’t the girl he hoped to see. The freshly showered Gryffindor Quidditch team trickled in by twos and threes, but still no Hermione.

Finally Harry couldn’t take it anymore and stood up abruptly. “Maybe she ran back to the library. I’m going to go and check.” 

Draco stared up at him before abruptly announcing, “We’ll come along.”

“We will?” Blaise’s brows went up as he glanced between Draco and Harry. “Sure, as moral support and witnesses.”

“Or something,” Draco said, looking away, as if not wanting to be caught out caring.

Squaring his shoulders, Harry swallowed. “That’s fine.” The wait had made him nervous all over again. He appreciated the support.

They’d just reached the staircase leading up to the library when Harry heard the whispers. His blood turned to ice as that familiar voice of rust and bitter cold slithered into his ears, just barely loud enough for him to make out the words.  _ “Come…Let me kill you….Let me—”  _ the voice cut off abruptly before resuming with what sounded like excitement, “ _ baby queen? _ ”

Harry’s stomach dropped. Excited had to be bad. “I hear that voice again; we have to stop it!” He sprinted up the stairs only to jerk to a stop and swear under his breath as the staircase began slowly swinging to a new position. “C’mon c’mon c’mon,” Harry chanted, trying to force the stairs to move faster.

“You mean you’re hearing Slytherin’s creature?” Blaise glanced from side to side and shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t hear anything. Are you sure?”

“Harry, no!” Draco looked pale and almost guilty as he grabbed Harry’s arm. “Bad idea. Remember what happened last time with Filch?”

“Then stay behind,” Harry bit out, shaking off Draco’s hand. He focused on the other side of the staircase as it slowly slid closer. It was taking forever. He tried to figure out if he could jump the gap and realized it was still too far, especially since he had to jump up instead of down. If he missed he’d break his leg or skull and become useless.

The creepy voice started crooning, a horrible sound that made Harry swallow down an involuntary whimper. Goosebumps popped up all over his skin. _ “My baby queen...sleeping baby queen...wake up baby...wake up...kill with me...mine….”  _

The voice faded away just as the staircase finally connected. Harry bounded up to the next floor and looked around wildly. Without the voice, he didn't know which way to go. When the screams started, Harry’s heart dropped. 

He was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometime in the next week or so this will probably be edited for any errors I missed.
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everybody! I’m so excited for the next few chapters. Whee! Awesome things are definitely coming. We finally get to start exploring the secrets in Hermione’s bloodline (what I thought this story would be about until the Slytherins tricked me with Quidditch and completely hijacked it). Also, I’m so glad to finally have Harry’s apology starting. I had to make this chapter huge to fit it all in, so I hope you enjoyed it. The scene with Myrtle wasn’t planned, but I’m really glad she decided to be a bigger figure in this story. Writing it made me tear up. You haven’t seen the last of her. I’m also having fun with how the Weasleys relate to Harry differently because he’s a Slytherin, but also how they are still fundamentally good people even if they can also be jerks. I’d love to hear what you think of the characters and events too. Thank you for reading and commenting!


	10. Second Year - Scapegoats and Snape’s Slytherins

Before Harry could reach the source of the screams, they trailed off. A familiar-sounding adult voice shouted a spell he didn’t recognize. Fireworks flashed from around the corridor up ahead, giving a piercingly loud whistle as streamers of sparking red light streaked through the air over his head and out into the castle. 

Feeling both deaf and blind, Harry staggered in a circle, bumping into Blaise while trying to remember which direction he’d been going. They grabbed onto each other, barely keeping upright, only to be knocked down as Draco tripped over his feet and sent them all sprawling. 

“Ouch.” Blaise said succinctly.

Suffocating with his face wrapped in someone’s trailing robe and a bony elbow digging into his back, Harry bucked and wiggled. “Gerroff!” He spat out fabric and sat up, trying to catch his breath. Professors ran in from every direction towards the source of the fireworks, following the frantically gesturing portraits. 

Harry and his friends scrambled to their feet only to come face to face with a harsh-looking Professor Snape, who’d just reached the top of the staircase, chest heaving. “Back to the common room. Now!” he snapped.

“But Professor—!” Harry started to argue, only to find his shoulder seized and his body spun around to face back towards the stairs. Draco was roughly shoved into place next to him.

“Do not test me, Potter!” Looking back at Snape, Harry found him glaring so hotly that he half expected his robes to start smoking. “You boys get to the common room now or I will petrify you myself and shove all three of you down the stairs! Now go!” Snape ordered, glancing back over his shoulder tensely.

“Yes, sir,” Blaise said hurriedly, grabbing Harry and Draco’s arms and dragging them forward. 

_ Stupid Snape.  _ Harry resisted for a moment before giving in with a scowl and stomping away down the staircase with his friends, keeping Snape in the corner of his eye as he went. He probably wasn’t bluffing. Besides, it wasn’t like Harry could do anything to help now if someone had gotten petrified. 

However, he was extremely curious to know what that awful voice had meant by,  _ “Baby queen.” _

From the corner of his eye he saw Snape put the tip of his wand against his throat and say, “ _ Sonorous, _ ” amplifying his voice so it echoed and boomed throughout the castle. “Attention everyone. Report  _ immediately  _ to your common rooms. Prefects will take a headcount. I repeat, everyone report to their common rooms and  _ stay there _ until told otherwise by their Head of House or face  _ dire consequences _ .” Ending the spell with a slash of his wand, Snape spun on his heel and disappeared in the direction of the commotion.

Frustrated and resentful, Harry went back to the dungeon with his friends. 

-oo0oo-

Everyone crowded into the Slytherin common room, making it feel unusually hot and humid. People shed their robes and draped them over every available surface, but no one left to find somewhere cooler, unwilling to miss any news about what had happened. 

A handful of Slytherins were missing, but rumor had it that most of them were in the hospital wing getting treated after a prank gone wrong. They’d opened a door and thrown in a handful of dungbombs at what they thought was a group of third years, not bothering to check first. When the room proved to hold seventh-years revising for their NEWTs, the pranksters had been overwhelmed by a barrage of angry jinxes that sent them limping to Madam Pomfrey for help.

As the time for dinner approached, everyone started getting cranky, hungry, and mean. The speculations and bets on which Muggleborn had been attacked—led by William Manic, Derrick, and Bole—were making Harry angry and anxious by turns. They only dared mention Hermione’s name once. When Harry lost his temper, jumped up, and started climbing on top of a couch to get a clear shot at them over the crowd, they changed the subject before he could escape the restraining hands of his friends. 

Hermione had to be fine. Harry refused to believe anything else. 

Draco kept wringing his hands and repeating to anyone who’d listen, “We’re safe. My father wouldn’t put me at risk. He wouldn’t.” Occasionally he elaborated that none of them had anything to worry about from the Heir of Slytherin because his father wouldn’t risk his son and heir, that if there was a real danger his father would’ve pulled him out of school or shut Hogwarts down and made sure it was taken care of because his father was never wrong. Draco probably also thought his father farted rainbows and lightning, so Harry didn’t put much stock in his opinion. If Draco didn’t shut up soon, Harry was going to use Valeria’s spell to glue his mouth shut and stick him to a chair, especially since it didn’t seem to be helping anyone, not even Draco. The more Draco talked about his father, the more hollow his eyes became, as if he knew he was lying to himself but couldn’t seem to stop.

Blaise, meanwhile, was taking bets on everything, acting like Harry was the idiot for not realizing that it had always been with real money and claiming that if Harry hadn’t been so self-absorbed, he would’ve realized it ages ago, which was  _ infuriating _ ... and also maybe true. In some ways, Harry had been self-absorbed this year. He had also chosen to surround himself with jerks, which begged the question—was he the nice one in their group, or was he a jerk too and just hadn’t admitted it to himself? 

In a bad mood, Harry paced the edges of the room, avoided his friends, and tried to keep his mind blank and mouth shut so he didn’t lash out at someone who didn’t deserve it. In the mood he was in everyone seemed to deserve it, but he had enough self-awareness to admit that that probably wasn’t true. His head ached and something deep beneath the surface of his skin itched. He needed to see Hermione, needed to know that she was okay.

At last the dungeon door swung open, revealing Professor Snape. He moved… slowly. There was no billow to his robe and beneath his beaky nose the corners of his mouth drooped. His hooded eyes moved around the room, not even pausing as they passed over Harry to find the Prefects and demand a report. It was... unsettling. 

Snape glanced over the list of missing students with no hint of surprise on his face, confirmed the location of the group in the infirmary, and tucked the list into his pocket. Emptying a chair of students with a single glare, he transfigured it into a small platform and climbed up the steps, folding his hands behind his back. The room became completely silent as everyone looked up at him.

“As you have probably guessed by now, there has been another incident. Two more students have been petrified.” Snape finally looked across the room at Harry, his eyes like patches of black ice, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine even though he couldn’t read the expression. 

Everyone followed Snape’s glance to look at Harry. The people who’d been crowding against him to hear the news slid back until he was standing alone in the crowd. Swallowing, Harry lifted his chin and stared back at Snape, refusing to be cowed or show that any of it affected him.

“Which Muggleborns were taken out, Professor?” William Manic broke the silence, his red lips twisting in sick pleasure. “Anyone killed this time?”

Sneering, Derrick stood up taller and tossed his head. “Hey, isn't it Ravenclaw’s turn? They’re the only ones left since Gryffindor and Hufflepuff already got some of theirs petrified.”

“Good point,” Manic said, leaning forward. “Well, Professor? Did a Ravenclaw get killed?”

Lips going thin, Snape stared at Manic and Derrick until their smiles faltered. “No,” Snape finally said curtly. “I’m sorry to say that two female students were found petrified: a Slytherin—” the room erupted into chaos and Snape had to raise his voice “—and a Gryffindor.”

“Halle’s missing! It has to be Halle!” cried one of her roommates. 

“Impossible!” Draco shouted angrily, cutting his hands through the air and demanding the room’s attention. “It can’t be Halle Harper!”

William Manic crossed his arms and looked away from Snape towards Draco condescendingly, regaining his arrogance as he tried to stare Draco down. “Unlike the rest of us, Harper’s a muggleborn. It was only a matter of time before someone took care of her.”

“She’s a half-blood, not a muggleborn!” Draco snapped. “Her grandmother was a Warren, making Harper a distant cousin to the Blacks, Ollivanders, and Selwyns.  _ There are no muggleborns in Slytherin. _ I checked!” Looking feverish, he turned to Snape. “You must be mistaken. The Heir of Slytherin attacks based on blood status. It can’t be her. I  _ checked _ .”

Snape sighed but otherwise didn’t react. “There is no mistake, Mr. Malfoy. Blood status does not seem to matter anymore.” 

“Of course it matters!” Theo cried over the din as hysteria took over the room. “We can’t be hunted like mudbloods!”

Harry would have gone over and hit him if Snape’s voice hadn’t frozen everyone in place like a predator slamming a paw on the chest of his prey. “Enough! Students will be spending the remainder of the night in the Great Hall while the Ministry helps us search the castle. You will be given dinner and then sleeping cots. Prefects will be responsible for keeping everyone in line.”

“But Professor—” Blaise started, flicking his eyes to Harry for a split second with what looked like sympathy before returning his eyes to Snape. Harry wished he was close enough to stop Blaise from asking his next question. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like it. “—you haven’t actually told us the names of both students or even where it happened.”

Inclining his head, Snape looked out over the crowd. “It happened near the library by the statue of the knight riding a boar. As for the victims, our Halle Harper was indeed petrified along with Gryffindor Hermione Granger.”

A ringing filled Harry’s ears, muffling the renewed noise of the crowd. “No.” he shook his head, trying to shake out the words. “No.” That couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. He’d just seen Hermione catch the Snitch. He still needed to apologize to her face to face, needed to keep his promise. Hermione couldn’t be petrified. She couldn’t.

Hands grabbed his robe, yanking him around and up onto his toes until he was dangling face to face with a wild-eyed Flint. “Halle was a  _ half-blood _ . Did you do it, Harry? Was she collateral damage because of your argument with Granger?” Flint shook him roughly.

“N-no!” Harry sputtered, shocked and hurt. “Of course I didn’t!” He hit at Flint’s arms, unable to loosen his grip. “Of course I didn’t do it!” He shouted, trying and failing to wrench himself away. “I’d never—not Halle—not  _ Hermione— _ ” his eyes filled with traitorous tears, making his vision blurry. His throat closed down. “ _ Never _ ,” he rasped, hitting uselessly at Flint again.

Eyes boring into his soul, Flint gave a curt nod and set Harry back on his feet. “Okay, sorry.” 

Knuckling at his eyes didn’t stop the stupid tears. “Arse.” They just came faster. “I wouldn’t.” 

“Okay,” Flint repeated. “Sorry.”

Harry wanted to jump up on Snape’s platform and scream. Wanted to start hitting someone and not stop. Wanted to sink through the ground and disappear. Wanted Hermione to hear his apology and forgive him and share a soft hug… but that was impossible because she wasn’t soft at all anymore, she was hard, hard as stone and just as lifeless. 

Being petrified wasn’t much different from being dead, especially when the Mandrake Potion wasn’t ready yet. That was what the Heir of Slytherin wanted, to kill muggleborns like Hermione, maybe to kill anyone different, to make them disappear. Harry thought of his world without Hermione in it, of living the rest of his life without her forgiving his mistakes or ever flying with him again... and found himself unable to breathe, the corners on his vision tunnelling and his knees going weak. 

Flint’s hand unexpectedly cupped the back of Harry’s neck and yanked him against his chest in a hold just as impossible to escape as the last one. “Piss off,” Harry wheezed, locking his knees and fisting his hands in Flint’s robes tight enough to make his fingers hurt, trying not to pass out. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead into Flint’s chest and tried to catch his breath. The hot hand on his neck felt grounding, protective instead of threatening.

“You’re okay Harry, just breathe. I believe you. I had to rule it out, just in case…but I believe you. I’ve got you. Calm down. I’ve got you,” Flint said softly, his voice rumbling from his chest straight into Harry’s head.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder and Harry heard Valeria speaking softly a second later. “If a half-blood can be petrified then none of us are safe. None of us. The professors are useless.” Her fingers tightened and her voice turned bitter and weary. “We’re going to have to protect ourselves, just like always.”

Harry laughed wetly. “Just like always.” Wrenching his seesawing emotions back into alignment, Harry forced himself to let go of Flint’s robes and stand on his own two feet. 

“One day at a time.” Flint’s hand on Harry’s neck squeezed once before letting go, the older boy swinging around to stand shoulder to shoulder with Harry. 

Lips pursing, Valeria grabbed Harry’s chin and, pulling her sleeve down over her fingers, scrubbed Harry’s face dry. “Don’t show them any weakness,” she ordered, running her hands through his hair roughly and tugging straight his robe before stepping back to flank Harry on his other side, her face as cold as carved marble. 

Harry blew out his breath and lifted his chin, trying to copy Valeria’s expression and look like he was fine and hadn’t just been falling apart. He was surprised to see that they were surrounded on all sides by members of the Quidditch team, mostly facing out in a protective circle that granted them some privacy from other members of their house. A lot of people were trying to catch a glimpse of him, probably putting together his stunt today with the flag and the name of the second victim. He took note of who looked sympathetic versus those who looked amused by Hermione’s petrification and his pain. He would remember.

Snape conferred with the Prefects by the door and then led everyone out. Harry was near the end of the line. They reached the top of the staircase and passed through the foyer on their way into the Great Hall. 

Most of Slytherin House, except for a few stragglers like Harry, had rushed ahead—following the smell of food—when the front doors opened, letting in a gust of icy air and a strange group of adults.

Dumbledore appeared first, the twinkle missing from his eyes and his shoulders slightly bowed, almost as if he had failed at something. As soon as the Headmaster noticed the students in the entryway his posture instantly straightened, making Harry almost wonder if he’d just imagined it. 

After Dumbledore came a self-important looking man with neatly cut grey hair and a fancy pocket watch chain hanging out his front pocket, followed by several men and women in dark, utilitarian robes that made Harry think of guards. Hagrid strode in the middle of the group.

“That’s Fudge and the Aurors!” Draco gasped. 

Harry jumped, not having realized he was there. “Who?” he asked.

“Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, the man in charge of the government,” Draco said tightly and gestured subtly to the guards, “and those are Aurors, dark wizard hunters.”

Watching them, Harry realized that the Aurors weren’t there to protect Minister Fudge, but to take in Hagrid, whom they watched with cold suspicion. Hagrid’s face was twisted in a terrible combination of frustration, fear, and hopelessness. It looked wrong and yet familiar. Harry had seen that expression once before at the end of Tom Riddle’s memory.

Before the doors swung closed, Lucius Malfoy slipped inside. Casting a quick glance around the room, he honed in on the Minister and strode forward. “Cornelius,” he called out, making the group stop and turn, “this—this  _ man _ ,” Malfoy pronounced the word with irony as he pointed his silver-topped cane at Hagrid, “should be in shackles.” 

“Father!” Draco cried, rushing forward.

Dumbledore turned to face Lucius Malfoy with a disapproving frown. “There is no need, Mr. Malfoy. Hagrid has agreed to go in for questioning despite the lack of evidence. He has not been charged with anything.”

“Not  _ yet _ .” Lucius sneered. “However, I’m sure that will soon change, especially since, with another attack, the Board of Governors has decided to stop taking your word about anything regarding the current problems in this school.”

“No!” Harry couldn’t help but exclaim, charging after Draco. “Hagrid would never hurt a student and neither would Professor Dumbledore!”

Draco came to a stop next to his father, head upturned as reached out with a voice full of relief and urgency. “Father, I need to talk to you!”

Busy shooting a disdainful glare at Harry, Mr. Malfoy avoided Draco’s hands deftly, patting his son on the head twice like a dog but otherwise not sparing him a glance. “Not now, Draco.”

Draco stumbled to a stop, staring at his father’s back in shock, looking both offended and hurt. “But father...” he trailed off when his father continued to walk away, still ignoring him.

“Now what’s this about the Board of Governors, Lucius?” Minister Fudge asked, the corners of his eyes going tight. He ignored both Draco and Harry, dismissing them in a single glance as unimportant. Harry wondered if flashing his scar would give him the chance to be heard, then decided that even if it did, it probably wouldn’t change anything. The scar didn’t get him respect, it got him notoriety. He forced himself to settle back to listen and wait.

The Malfoy patriarch came to a stop between Fudge and Dumbledore, leaning forward on his cane in a powerful pose that drew all eyes in the room. “Like the Ministry, we have found it necessary to intervene in the running of the school after this latest attack. After all, we can’t have the public doubting how seriously we take the safety of their children.” He inclined his head towards the Minister. “I’m sure you’ll agree, Cornelius.” 

“Oh yes, public perception. Very important,” Fudge quickly agreed. “As is safety, of course.”

Mr. Malfoy smiled thinly and turned to the Headmaster with something cold and smug in his eyes. “Albus Dumbledore, on behalf of the Board I am here to tell you that you are being relieved of your duties as Headmaster of Hogwarts. Effective immediately.”

Gasps and cries came from the students lingering in the foyer and crowding the doorway to the Great Hall to watch. Harry was trying not to panic at the thought of the Heir of Slytherin still running loose without Dumbledore around to at least hinder their movements and attacks, even if he hadn’t been able to stop them completely. If someone as powerful as Dumbledore couldn’t figure it out, who could? Certainly not the rest of the professors. 

Valeria was right. Just like always, they were going to have to protect themselves. Harry should know better by now than to trust in adults to rescue him. They never had before, why should that change now?

Eyes locked, Mr. Malfoy tried to stare Dumbledore down and failed, the older wizard looking back so evenly that eventually Malfoy was forced to drop his eyes with a huff and adjust the fall of his robes. 

The corner of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched for a split second before his expression returned to bland affability. “I shall escort the Minister and Hagrid to the floo in my office first. I trust I will be allowed to pack my things before leaving.” He phrased it as a statement instead of a question. “I think that this is a mistake—” an uneasy ripple went through the guards and Malfoy’s brows slammed down as he opened his mouth to argue, only for Dumbledore to hold up a hand, cutting him off “—but I will follow the will of the Board. However, there will always be help at Hogwarts for those who are loyal.” For a brief moment, it felt like Dumbledore was looking over the top of his spectacles directly into Harry’s eyes, making Harry’s breath catch. Then the group swept past on their way to the stairs leading up to Dumbledore’s office. 

“Thank you for cooperating, Albus,” the voice of Minister Fudge drifted back. “Hopefully the culprit will soon be caught and this unpleasantness will only be temporary.” The group disappeared up the stairs without further conversation, leaving Harry with his whirling thoughts.

“Stop gawking and get inside,” Valeria’s voice snapped him out of his fugue. She shoved him forward. “Grab Draco and let’s go.” 

Following her command numbly, Harry grabbed the unusually quiet Draco and walked into the buzzing Great Hall to sit at the Slytherin table. Harry spooned some mashed potatoes onto his plate, but after only a few bites he found the food sticking uncomfortably in his mouth, feeling too thick to swallow. Draco was even worse, pushing the food around on his plate but not actually lifting any up to his mouth. Trying to be a good example, Harry accidentally-on-purpose bumped into Draco’s side and took a big bite of his food. Sighing, Draco lifted a spoonful of peas to his mouth and lipped two into his mouth before dropping his spoon again.

A glance up at the mostly empty staff table—a table that might never see Dumbledore sitting there ever again—made Harry swallow hard, the potatoes scraping down his throat painfully. Both Slytherins and Gryffindors were unusually subdued tonight, probably thinking of their lost members petrified up in the infirmary—thinking about the hole left by Halle and Hermione. Harry’s fork clattered down onto his plate. He didn’t think he could force down another mouthful.

“When you’re upset, you should punish other people. Not yourself,” Valeria said sternly, which… explained so much about her, really. “You should eat more.”

Draco sighed and mumbled petulantly, “I’m not upset.”

“I am,” Harry said glumly.

“How did I get saddled with a bunch of moody twelve-year-olds,” Valeria muttered under her breath, standing up and reaching for a hot chocolate tray farther down the table.

Pushing away his plate, Draco sent her a scowl and raised his chin into the air. “I’m not some twelve-year old kid.”

“I am,” Harry repeated with a sigh before giving Draco a sideways look. “And that was a lie. Your birthday’s in June. We’re both still twelve.”

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco snapped, flushing pink.

On Valeria’s other side Flint chuckled and used his longer arms to move platters out of the way for Valeria to drag the beverage tray she wanted closer, leaning over to speak quietly in her ear with a smirk, “You have no one to blame for this but yourself. You break it, you buy it.”

“Are you saying I’ve broken these poor boys?” Valeria asked Flint coyly. People nearby jumped and stared, still not used to anything but cold disdain from Valeria, before quickly looking away, afraid of being caught and jinxed in retaliation.

Flint grinned and rested his chin on his fist. “Are you saying you haven’t?”

Giving a mysterious smile in response, Valeria turned to the tray, grabbing four mugs and pouring out a stream of steaming hot chocolate into each mug, followed by several dashes of cinnamon. That was weird but not too bad. Then she picked up a shaker of cayenne pepper hiding behind a platter of red beans and sprinkled that on top of the first three mugs. Harry couldn’t help but make a disgusted face and opened his mouth to comment before realizing how that would probably go and snapping his mouth shut again. Valeria grabbed a spoon and rapped the back of his hand to prove she’d seen the face, but didn’t rap him too hard in approval for thinking before speaking. Using the spoon, she scraped dark chocolate shavings and whipped cream off a nearby pie and dolloped some on each concoction, ignoring the pouty lips and sad eyes made by Terence watching the destruction of the dessert he’d been about to grab from the other side of the table. The one mug without cayenne pepper she handed to Flint, placing the others in front of Harry, Draco, and herself. 

“Drink it,” she ordered, sitting back down gracefully.

Eyeing the mug dubiously, Harry screwed up his face and obediently took a sip, bracing himself. Spicy… but kind of nice. Really nice, actually, warming him from mouth to stomach. He wanted more, but hesitated. Draco was watching his reaction closely. Harry made sure to shudder and twist his expression into disgust and nausea, channeling his memory of drinking Skele-Gro and selling it for all he was worth.

Expression pained, Draco lifted the mug to his mouth and hesitated, glancing dubiously between Harry and Flint, who sipped his drink with a happy hum. “Why doesn’t he have to drink it with pepper?

“Because he’s not being moody and he doesn’t like cayenne pepper,” Valeria said reasonably.

Lowering the mug, Draco tried to bluster, “Well I don’t— 

“Drink it,” she cut him off in a scary voice, eyes narrowing and fingertip tapping the table.

“Yes, Valeria.” Draco meekly dropped his eyes, lifted the mug to his lips like a man going to an execution and, screwing up his face, forced himself to take a sip. Rolling it around in his mouth, his eyes went wide and his shoulders came down. Draco swallowed, turned to Harry, and hit him hard in the arm. “You prat! It’s not bad at all.”

Dropping his act, Harry laughed, slapping Draco’s second punch away and elbowing him in the side. “Got you!” Harry took a big sip of his doctored hot chocolate, liking the second spicy sip even better than the first. 

Grumbling, Draco elbowed Harry back and slurped at his drink, licking the cream from the top of his lips.

Wrapping an arm around Valeria’s waist, Flint drank from his mug and looked around with satisfaction. “See? You broke them.”

“Broke them in maybe,” she said, sipping her drink smugly.

Flint shook his head and took another drink. “Same difference. You’re stuck with them now.” He held out his mug towards her. “More cream please?”

“What am I, your personal elf?” Nevertheless, her spoon darted out, scraping across the top of the pie slice Terence had just started to lift from the tin and depositing the cream into Flint’s mug.

“You stink!” Terrence cried, throwing the mangled pie slice back into the tin, causing the bottom crust to break and ooze out chocolate mousse.

Valeria leaned forward with an  _ almost  _ pleasant smile. “I could jinx you to stink. For a full week.”

Terence held her stare for three whole seconds before folding. “Of poisoned flowers and the sweet blood of your enemies. That’s what I meant, of course.” He tilted the tin towards her with a grimacing smile. “Would you like more cream?” 

Looking pleased with herself, Valeria shook her head and leaned back into Flint’s arm, taking a dainty sip from her mug. 

Smirking, Flint lifted his mug and slurped loudly. He squeezed Valeria’s waist with an appreciative look, following it up with a hard stare for Terence. It was teasing, but people who didn’t really know Flint would probably read it as scary, even with the cream now dotting his nose and upper lip. Terence subtly flicked his eyes to his fork, angling it to catapult mash potatoes at Flint’s face. Flint narrowed his eyes into a threat, but he couldn’t keep from showing the little creases that meant he was holding in a laugh as he ran his hand over the cream on his face and then licked it clean. 

Harry kept watching them carefully, ready to duck the moment a food fight broke out. As a former Seeker, Terence was fast and tricky. Flint knew it too, keeping his eyes locked on Terence as he absent-mindedly ran his hand up and down Valeria’s arm and then up her back and into her hair, massaging gently. 

Valeria froze the instant his fingers tightened in her hair. Flint was too distracted to notice. Her eyes blanked and her expression wiped clean of all thoughts or emotions. She even stopped breathing. It was like Valeria had disappeared and Harry was sitting next to an empty doll.

Not thinking—just reacting to the  _ wrongness _ —Harry grabbed Flint’s wrist, dug in his fingernails, and twisted, forcing Flint to stop touching her. 

Instantly Flint turned on Harry with bared teeth and violence in his eyes, reminding Harry of the last time he’d been bitten by one of Aunt Marge’s dogs. Flint’s large hand shot out behind Valeria’s back and grabbed Harry’s robe, tightening the cloth around his neck so it became hard to breathe. 

“Stop!” Harry wheezed, urgently flicking his eyes towards where Valeria still sat unmoving, not even reacting to Harry being strangled behind her back, her usual aura of power completely missing. 

Fingers tightening painfully, Flint followed the glance for only a second before turning back to Harry with a growl. “If you think—” stopping, Flint took a second look at Valeria. His eyes widened. Recognition, guilt, anger, and pain flashed through his eyes before he swallowed back the emotions. 

Releasing Harry with a jerk, he moved back, shifting so no part of him touched Valeria. Lips thin, he picked up a pea off his plate and threw it at Harry so it bounced off his nose, forcing his expression into one of light mocking. “If you want a fight, use the best tools for the situation.” 

Flint picked up another pea and, tossing it up only to catch it again, arched his brow, keeping his eyes on Harry and away from his frozen girlfriend. “In here it’s food, not fists, Harry.” He flicked the pea at Harry again, but this time Harry blocked it with his hand.

Valeria had started breathing again but was still off, dropping her head to stare vacantly at her plate. Harry didn’t want anyone to notice her vulnerability. He had to protect her. 

“What about magical food?” he asked, waving his hand to draw people’s attention and forcing himself to sit back and look nonchalant. “Like could you aim an army of chocolate frogs at someone and get them all to jump at the same time? It would be a good prank.”

“Waste of good chocolate,” Flint said, placing both of his hands flat on the table and slouching as if to try and make himself look smaller and more harmless (a nigh impossible task). 

“Besides, chocolate frogs are hard to aim,” Terence chimed in, looking confused and slightly worried about what had just happened but going along with the change in topic without skipping a beat, following his Captain’s lead. “You’d be better with a rocket pop or something that flies in a straight line. I’d also use something they either really liked or really hated to eat. I should think that would be even more distracting.”

For the next several minutes they discussed the pros and cons of different types of foods you could use in a food fight. Draco favored hard candies while Terence leaned towards foods that splattered. Harry and Flint let them lead the argument, both too worried about Valeria to really focus.

The knot in Harry’s belly only started to unwind when Valeria blew out her breath and reached out to pick up her mug, taking a long, slow sip.

“So theoretically,” Terence said, turning to Flint, “if I wanted to distract Valeria during a food fight, what should I throw? Chocolate?” He only grinned when Valeria ignored him and took another sip of her spicy hot chocolate. Terence had always been an adrenaline junky. It had been part of what made him such a good Seeker.

Flint’s hand fisting on the table was his only tell that he was unhappy to have the focus shifting to Valeria. Otherwise, his expression looked unconcerned. “Nope, crispy bacon.”

Terence chuffed. “Let me guess. She likes to feel it crunch between her teeth like an ogre with human bones?” 

“I am sitting right here,” Valeria said softly, her tone all the more dangerous for how quiet it was.

“Like an ogre queen I meant, of course.” Terrence’s fork snapped out and stole the bacon Miles had just put on his plate, flipping it up into the air so it sailed over the hot chocolate tray and pie tin in the middle of the table to land in the exact center of Valeria’s plate.

“Hey!” Miles cried. 

Everyone ignored him. 

Valeria looked at the bacon for a moment before picking it up and taking a bite with a rough crunch, chewing viciously. 

“Oh here,” Draco said abruptly, grabbing the bacon plate from farther down the table and dropping it in front of Valeria, almost knocking over the pot of hot chocolate and forcing Miles to grab it before it tipped over into his lap. “We might as well appease her highness with the rest of it.” 

Not giving any acknowledgement, Valeria transferred most of the bacon to her plate, tossing back a few limp pieces that hadn’t been cooked as crispy as the rest.

“Good idea,” Terence said, watching her pick through the bacon. “In fact, very good idea.” He reached out and dragged the entire pie tin in front of himself. Scraping across the surface of the pie, he consolidated the remaining cream in one section and dug deep, cramming the towering bite of crust, chocolate mousse, and dripping cream into his mouth with a hum.

-oo0oo-

After dinner the tables were removed and replaced with sleeping cots. It was still too early to sleep and the few adults in the room seemed more interested in gossiping about Dumbledore’s removal and what could have petrified the students (the same list of already rejected creatures that had been bouncing around for months) than in overseeing any particular activity. The Ravenclaw corner became a hub for homework and studying while the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors had drawn in many of the other students by organizing tournaments for Wizard Chess, Gobstones, Exploding Snap, and a few other games. 

In the Slytherin section Valeria’s mood rapidly deteriorated, sliding from short-tempered into downright nasty. She dragged her cot to the only corner, placed her back to the wall, and defended it with prejudice. A couple of seventh-years—stupid and short-tempered ones who refused to accept that older didn’t mean stronger—tried to kick her out of the best spot. Before Harry could do anything the fight was already over. He winced at the squelches and whimpers. A few other idiots thought they could get away with muttered insults and complaints. They quickly found themselves cocooned on their cots in goo, mummified from the bottoms of their ankles to the tops of their lips. She didn’t seem in any hurry to cancel the spell either.

The Muggle-Studies Professor tugged on Snape’s robe fretfully and pointed out what was going on, but—on seeing that it was normal Slytherin in-fighting without any dripping wounds or hysterical shrieking—Snape impatiently dismissed her concerns and left his Slytherins alone to work it out by themselves.

When Harry mentioned to Blaise that he was shocked that anyone could be stupid enough to attack her in a frontal assault, much less insult her within her hearing, Blaise pulled him to the other side of the room and explained how most people only knew Valeria by reputation. She kept to herself and rarely interacted with people outside of Quidditch, leading to some people thinking her reputation was exaggerated. Dating Flint and training Harry had pushed her a bit more into the spotlight this year, but she hadn’t taken advantage of the attention. Valeria was dominant in the hierarchy not because of how well she played the game, but because she was scary enough to mostly avoid playing. 

Even her yearmates supposedly didn’t know her that well since she kept to herself as much as possible during classes and hadn’t slept in the group room since third year, when she’d dominated them all to claim the big private room. 

Similar to Gryffindor, Slytherins slept in same-sex shared rooms their first two years. However, starting in third year, Slytherins were also given a large private room to fight over. The winner got to sleep alone while everyone else still had to share. Each year the number of private rooms increased by one, though each room added was smaller than the last, ending with everyone in a single by seventh year, though if you had more than six people to start with then the rumor was that the final private rooms were all only wide enough for a single bed and you had to climb over the foot of the bed to get inside to lay down. Ownership of private rooms could be transferred the first week of each semester. It encouraged a lot of dominance fights and helped establish a relatively linear hierarchy, at least within each age group by gender. Some people dominated through charisma, some through trading of favors, and others through fear and force.

Flint tried to go talk to Valeria and barely got his shield spell up in time to deflect the spell she shot at his face. Grinding his teeth, he sent her a frustrated look and stomped away. Harry didn’t even bother trying. There was no point until she got over whatever bad memory had made her freeze up during dinner.

The opposition quickly folded, leaving Valeria to her corner surrounded by a ring of space where no one who valued their life dared venture. She covered her head and shoulders in her blanket until nothing showed but her shadowed chin and the wand in her hand, wedged herself into the corner, and became so still she almost seemed to disappear.

Without the distraction of dinner, Harry noticed a lot of people casting fearful and angry looks in his direction as everyone remembered that he was the most popular candidate for the Heir of Slytherin. He even heard a few people speculating that his stunt with the flag had been an attempt to throw off suspicion for his planned attack on Hermione, or that he’d cornered her after the game and then attacked when she’d refused to speak to him. It made him so angry—an anger that throbbed like a second heartbeat in his chest—but he refused to cower, meeting every look with a glare of his own. He hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of. They were the shameless ones, convicting him of a crime without a single shred of evidence.

He distracted himself with homework, a game, and then a book, but nothing could keep his attention for long. This morning felt like a lifetime ago. He’d woken with such anticipation and hope. He’d thought his plan perfect and that he’d accounted for every eventuality. He’d promised himself that he’d apologize to Hermione no matter what. Somehow, he’d forgotten to take into account Hermione getting petrified before he could say the words. Now that she couldn’t hear them, what was even the point?

The carefully styled reflection of himself from that morning stepped to the forefront of his mind, reached out, and smacked him over the head hard enough to make his ears ring. _ “No more excuses. You know what you have to do. You will apologize. Today!” _

Using his pep talk from that morning was unfair. Hermione was petrified up in the infirmary. His promises were pointless. Hermione would never even know if he said anything or not.

_ You’ll know, Harry. You will. What is your promise worth? When you vowed to say the words before today ended, were you lying? _

No! When he’d promised to do whatever it took to apologize today, he’d meant it… and the day wasn’t over yet.

Looking around, he saw Professor Snape talking quietly to Professor Sinistra at the edge of the room. 

“Whatever it takes,” he told himself, swallowing down the sick feeling in his stomach as he stood up and wiped his sweaty palms off on his robes.

Blaise looked up from the story he’d been reading on his cot. “What’s that, Harry?” 

“I promised to apologize to Hermione today,” Harry said, trying to sound resolute. His words drew looks of consternation from his friends.

Putting a finger between the pages of his book to mark his place, Blaise sat up, looking sympathetic. “Isn’t that what the whole thing with the flag was about during the game? I think you made a good attempt.”

Harry was trying to get his feet to move, but they didn’t seem to be obeying him. “I haven’t said the words yet. I need to go and tell her face to face.”

“Don’t be stupid, Harry,” Draco said sharply. “No one gets out of here, much less into the infirmary to see the victims. Not without permission from their Head of House.” His mood had steadily worsened since he’d finished his cup of spicy cocoa. He kept trying to write a letter to his parents, only to crumple up the paper and start over again after only a few lines. His blankets and the floor around his cot were covered in ragged balls of paper. 

Eyes narrowing at Draco, Harry curtly told him, “I know that. That’s why I’m going to go and ask Snape.”

Draco tossed down his quill with a bit too much relish. “Professor Snape hates you. He wouldn’t give you permission to use the loo, much less leave the room during a lockdown to visit a friend, a friend who’s a Gryffindor, a Gryffindor who made him lose a Quidditch match to Professor McGonagall.”

“It was a tie!” Harry snapped, grinding his teeth.

Snorting, Draco shook his head condescendingly. “Snape doesn’t care. He doesn’t understand you—he doesn’t want to understand you. Asking him for anything is a waste of time.”

What made Draco even more irritating than most people was that he could be just as cruel with the truth as he could with a lie. However, Draco’s mocking somehow did what Blaise’s sympathy could not, solidifying Harry’s resolve, dissolving his fears, and filling him with clarity. “It’s my time to waste,” he said evenly, meeting Draco’s eyes and refusing to blink first. “I made a promise. I have to do my best to keep it, no matter what it takes. That’s what making a promise means to me.”

Lips twisting, Draco looked away and shrugged one shoulder. “Your funeral.”

Considering the monster currently stalking the halls of Hogwarts, Harry didn’t find that very funny. “Better to die for caring too much than for not caring enough.” For some reason that made Draco flinch and fidget. 

Distracted by the show of weakness, Harry stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Why do you look guilty, Draco? What did you do?” 

Draco couldn’t be the Heir of Slytherin because he’d been with Harry during several of the attacks. He’d looked just as worried as the rest of them while waiting for news. That theory made little sense. So what was this?

Avoiding Harry’s eyes, Draco twisted away and started gathering up his crumbled letter drafts. “If you’re going to work some miracle on Snape, you’d better hurry.”

Running a hand over his hair in frustration, Harry looked over and saw that Snape had finished his conversation with Sinistra and started moving towards a side door. Draco was right. Harry would have to figure out what was going on with Draco later. 

Straightening up, Harry took a deep breath and left to intercept Snape. He caught him just as he reached the doorway. “Professor Snape,” he called, reminding himself to act respectful and humble. There were more important things than pride.

He was reminded of Valeria’s words when she’d terrified them with her announcement of Viper school:  _ “You have to learn when to sink to your knees and keep your own council and when to stay standing and fight. Learn the humility to subordinate yourself to a stronger power. Compensate for your weaknesses and hone your strengths. Learn what is most important to you and what you will do to keep it. Learn who you are and how to succeed at hard things. Learn how to win.” _

Lips pinching, Snape turned. “Mister Potter. What is it?”

“I’d like permission to visit the students in the infirmary,” Harry said, trying to make himself act like Draco when he was being a huge suck-up. Snape always responded really well to that. 

“Denied.” 

Then again, there’d always been a huge difference between how Snape reacted to Draco versus Harry.

Opening the door, Snape turned his back on Harry dismissively and stepped out into the hall. Harry followed doggedly at his heels. He refused to concede so easily. “Please Professor, I’d like to visit my friends.” It took effort, but he kept his tone of voice soft.

“Denied.” Snape spun on his heel, the picture of irritation as his black robes snapped around his legs. “I’m not stupid, Potter. Everyone knows that the muggleborns are all terrified of you. None of them are your friends. Besides, you’re just like your father. I won’t let you waltz in there and prank those petrified students just to gain status in Slytherin or for a bit of a laugh.” 

Temper pricked, Harry stepped closer and met Snape’s eyes hotly. “I don’t know what your problem is with my father but I’m. Not. Him.” He sucked in air through his teeth and tried to calm down. “And I don’t want to prank anyone. I just want to visit Halle.” 

“Don’t bother lying.” Snape’s mouth twisted with contempt. “Miss Harper is one of mine. I know how scared of you she is. I caught you bullying her, remember?”

“I wasn’t bullying her, I was trying to stop the bullying!” Harry growled and barely kept from fisting his hands. “I’ve suffered too much from bullies to ever want to become one.” He tried to ignore Snape’s scoff. “And I may be in Slytherin, but I don’t care about blood status. I care about people and Halle Harper is a good person. She deserves better.” Rubbing his forehead hard, thumbing the bump of his scar, Harry took a deep breath and reined in his temper, frustrated at both Snape and himself. “That’s the truth.”

“Really?” Snape’s dark eyebrow arched skeptically. “You expect me to believe that you want to visit her just because she’s a good person? You haven’t asked to visit anyone else before now. Shouldn’t Saint Potter have wanted to visit all of the poor victims?” He sneered.

Harry gritted his teeth.“I don’t know the other victims.” 

Snape sniffed, unimpressed. “From what I’ve seen you barely know Miss Harper. You’re wasting my time with your lies. I said no. Go back into the Great Hall.” His brow beetled as he glared at Harry. “Now.”

What could Harry possibly say to change Snape’s mind? To get him to understand? There was no lie that seemed clever enough and the truth was hard to accept even for Harry’s closest friends. Then again, he couldn’t just give up. He’d promised. If all he had was the truth then so be it. He was willing to humble himself even more for the chance to keep his promise.

Swallowing hard, Harry tried to meet Snape’s glare with earnestness, stomping down on his pride and temper. “Please, Professor. Let me try to explain, just one more time. You’re right that this isn’t completely about Halle,” a dangerous light sparked in Snape’s eyes so Harry sped up his delivery before he was picked up and tossed head-first back through the door, “or not just about Halle, at least. I wasn’t lying when I said I care about her. I haven’t lied at all to you. You said earlier that she’s one of yours. Well, I know you don’t like me, but that doesn’t change the fact that—” Harry had to call upon all his bravery to finish his sentence “— _ I’m _ one of yours  _ too _ .” 

Something subtle in Snape’s face changed at that—surprise morphing into bitter irony and acceptance that gave Harry hope for the first time during the entire conversation. 

Stumbling over his words, Harry continued, “I know I’m far from perfect, but I’ll always be a Slytherin and since you’re my Head of House, we’ll always be tied together. I need your help, Professor. I need help keeping a promise to apologize, not to Halle, but to Hermione Granger.” 

At that confession, Snape’s eyes went wide in shock and incredulity. 

Looking down, Harry traced the edges of the flagstones with his eyes and forced himself to keep explaining. It didn’t matter what Snape thought of him as long as he helped in the end. This was more important than pride. “I know it’s hard to believe that a boy in Slytherin could ever be friends with a girl in Gryffindor,” he shrugged moodily, distantly noticing Snape reacting to his words but too caught up in his story to look for weaknesses in his Professor right now, “but Hermione and I were good friends. Best friends. She was the best— _ is  _ the best.” He sucked in a hard breath, angry at himself for using past tense when she wasn’t gone, just petrified. She was still here. He was going to go up and see that for himself soon. He just had to convince Snape to let him. 

“This year I got caught up in trying out for the Quidditch team and then with getting to know my new friends and teammates and I dropped her for a while, thinking our friendship would pick up just fine when I wasn’t so busy. It was stupid and selfish. I got blindsided when she came out as the reserve Gryffindor Seeker and that Bludger broke my arm and then she caught the Snitch when I fell off my broom and I was so humiliated and angry and in pain that I lashed out and almost called her a mud—” cutting himself off, Harry bit his lip hard enough to bleed. Taking off his glasses, he pressed his fingers hard against his eyes and told himself to get a grip. He was rambling.

For some reason Snape hadn’t interrupted him yet. Harry couldn’t count on that continuing for long. He forced himself to look up. Snape’s slightly blurry face looked paler than usual and he seemed to almost flinch as their eyes met. There was something about Harry’s green eyes without their glasses that seemed to unnerve the man, but he’d have to figure that out later. Right now he didn’t have the thoughts to spare.

“Sorry, you don’t care about that,” he rasped, trying to stop himself only to start babbling again. “Anyway, I know better than to use that word—I don’t even believe in it. She’s the brightest witch in our year, she’s amazing, but I was just so angry and weak and stupid.” The hinge of his glasses bit into his palm, but Harry didn’t relax his grip, feeling like he deserved the pain. “Luckily I stopped myself before I actually said it, but she could see that I almost had and it hurt her. I hurt her.” And he was so ashamed of that. 

“Then I didn’t know how to apologize because before Hogwarts I never had any friends to apologize to and living with my Aunt Petunia, apologizing was more a matter of survival than sincerity because if I didn’t—” Harry’s teeth clacked painfully as he bit his words off. Rubbing the old burn scars on his hand, he licked away the coppery blood seeping from his bit lip and reminded himself again that Snape didn’t care about those details. No one did. 

He forced himself to restart. “Hermione is nothing like them. She’s so much better. She deserved better and I didn’t know how to do it right so... I didn’t do anything.” Voice full of self-loathing, he tore his eyes away and shoved his glasses back onto his face, not even wincing as the arm of his glasses scraped across his cheek.

Harry’s chest hurt. Stupid, clumsy idiot. Snape didn’t need to know all those details. That wasn’t what he’d been intending to say. What was Harry’s problem? Where had all of his Slytherin cunning disappeared to? What had happened to his gift for speeches? Did that only work with his peers and not with adults? Had it all been a fluke?

Crossing his arms behind his back, tightening his hand on his wrist, he stared over Snape’s shoulder and forced himself to finish. “So that’s the long and short of it. I was stupid and a coward. I let it go on until I realized that if I didn’t change, I was going to lose my friend forever.” He had to take a quick breath as saying the words out loud sent a painful cramp through his gut. 

“I planned out a big apology to make up for how long I’d waited, a big gesture in front of everyone so she’d know that I was really sorry and that I wasn’t going to pretend she wasn’t my friend in front of others just because she’s a Gryffindor and I’m a Slytherin or because she’s muggleborn and I’m a half-blood or even because we’re on opposing Quidditch teams.” His eyes stung and his heart pounded. “That’s what my flag was about during today’s game, my promise to stop hiding from hard things and be a better friend.”

Draco had ridiculed Harry’s announcement by saying that Snape didn’t care or understand him, that Snape didn’t want to understand him. The only way Harry was getting up to the infirmary was if he could get past that. He couldn’t make Snape care, but maybe he could make him understand. That’s what this explanation was about. He had to stay humble and focused on that goal.

“I promised myself I’d apologize no matter what. That’s why I need your permission to go and visit her now, Professor. I need to say I’m sorry. I promised that I would say it to her today, even if I had to wait outside her common room door for hours,” Snape twitched at that, “or disguise myself and sneak inside to do it. She deserves an apology. I’ve made her wait long enough.” 

Harry’s grip on the wrist behind his back was so tight that his hand was starting to go numb. “Please, sir. That’s the whole truth. I just want to keep my promise and apologize to my friend.” He forced his eyes to Snape’s, hoping the man would be moved by his sincerity, hoping it had been enough to get him to understand. “Please help me.”

Snape looked back, seemingly dazed, staring as if he was seeing Harry for the first time. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he said unexpectedly, his voice unsteady.

Blinking rapidly, Harry opened and closed his mouth. “Wha—you knew my mother?” He was so surprised that he was unable to censor his next thought. “Were you friends? Am I much like her?” he asked eagerly, only to wince and drop his eyes as Snape recoiled, his shoulders going up and his entire frame tightening. 

“Sorry, stupid question. I know what you think of me,” Harry breathed. He dug his fingernails into his wrist. That was dumb. Snape hated his guts and constantly compared him to his father, whom he’d also hated. He knew that.

No one here really told Harry much about his parents except for vague platitudes about love and bravery. He had a few more details about his father and his penchant for pranks and Quidditch (and how much Snape thought he was a conceited jerk and bully, like he had any room to talk), but his mother was much more of a mystery. Even Hagrid, as kind as he was, had only known his parents in passing, though he’d still liked them very much and given Harry copies of all his group photos with them.

“No,” Snape said angrily before his shoulders abruptly dropped and he released a long sigh full of discarded thoughts, his eyes going unfocused as if suddenly seeing something from the past. A mirthless laugh escaped his lips and he shook his head. “Or perhaps yes. Perhaps you are somewhat like her and,” his voice dropped to an incredulous whisper, “even harder to believe, perhaps somewhat like me.” Harry jerked in shock. “I had not let myself see, had not wanted to see… but somehow... yes.” Red swept up Snape’s cheeks as if he’d taken a fever and thoughts churned behind his dark eyes as he examined Harry from foot to crown. 

The air quivered with tension as if something momentous was about to happen, though Harry knew not what. Unnerved, Harry swallowed and stood straighter under the inspection, releasing his wrist with a painful rush of blood. He nervously straightened his robes and neatened the fall of his green and silver tie. Snape’s eyes snapped to the motion and caught, mouth falling open and then snapping shut on words that Harry was almost glad he hadn’t spoken, going by the look in the older man’s eyes, a look that made hair rise on the back of Harry’s neck.

“Professor?” Harry finally said when the silence went on too long and he couldn’t stand it anymore.

Snape ran his eyes from Harry’s black hair, past his scar, paused for a moment on the green eyes behind round frames, and then settled on his Slytherin tie, gaze going unfocused. When Snape spoke it was through barely moving lips that Harry had to lean forward and strain to hear, despite standing so close. “Yes, you are a Slytherin, aren’t you?” The words hissed out on the merest puff of air, like thoughts escaping under too much pressure. “Her child a Slytherin...and mine now. Not a lion and not his…. All that is left of her…mine. Perhaps....” 

Harry had never seen such a complicated look on Snape’s face before. He had no idea how to read it and didn’t know if he wanted to. It was cruel, vindictive, and possessive, yet somehow also gentle, sad, and sweet, like something in his heart was both softening and sharpening at the same time. It was not a safe expression. A shiver went down Harry’s spine and goosebumps sprung up across his skin. 

“Professor Snape?” Harry said, not knowing what else to say.

Before the sound of Harry’s words had even faded from the air, Snape’s face had blanked and then shifted into something neutral. “Harry Potter.” For the first time in memory Snape spoke with the emphasis on Harry’s first name instead of his last. He didn’t know if the change was good or bad. 

Then Snape gave Harry a curt nod, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Heart dropping, Harry stared after him with disappointment. He sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. Well, that had failed. Miserably. He’d have to watch out for Snape even more now that he had exposed so many weaknesses without anything to show for it. Great. Just great.

Fisting a hand into his hair, he tried to think. Maybe he could try asking Professor McGonagall? She sometimes seemed to have a soft spot for him because of his parents and Hermione was one of her favorite students. Or he could get his invisibility cloak tomorrow as soon as they let him back in his room and use it to sneak into the infirmary. It would push his apology back by a day, but better a day late than not at all. He would keep his promise.

“Are you coming or not?” Snape snapped over his shoulder from down the hall.

Harry jumped and stared at him in confusion. “What?”

“To apologize to your friend,” Snape said slowly like Harry was both stupid and hard of hearing.

“Yes!” Harry scrambled after him, barely believing his good luck and not willing to question it in case Snape changed his mind again just as inexplicably. “Thank you, please!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year friends! May 2021 be ever so much better than 2020 for everyone, though 2020 wasn’t all bad. It brought me this story and some new readers, so yay for that! 
> 
> My daughter finally lost her first tooth too this week, though she got upset at me yesterday and it took forever to get her to tell me that it was because she expected a lost tooth party and was sad she hadn’t gotten one. We never did that for her older brother, and I did get excited for her and we drew a picture for the tooth fairy and I gave her some soda, but obviously that wasn’t enough. I’m not even sure what a tooth party entails.
> 
> Writing some scenes is easy and other big scenes that I’ve pictured over and over in my head are really difficult to get out onto the page. This scene with Snape was like that. I hope it lived up to what I dreamed it could be. A scene in the next chapter is doing the same thing to me—resisting because the words on the screen keep stuttering clumsily instead of flowing into what I know they should be based on my imaginings.
> 
> Next chapter we see Harry visiting a petrified Hermione in the infirmary. Is he in for a quick, one-sided conversation? Or will something unexpected happen? *wink* Also, Hermione got petrified in this story a lot earlier than in canon. Here it’s the last weekend of February and in canon it looks like it happened in early May. I don’t know how or if this will affect my current plan. Hmm. For those of you who are worried, Hermione still has a very large part to play in how second year falls out and in the defeat of the basilisk. :D
> 
> Thank you to my very helpful and hardworking beta readers — Iforgottocall and dizzysappedweak! Any mistakes are mine despite their best efforts to get me to consistently capitalize wizarding terms.


	11. Second Year - Voices from Stone

Snape took Harry to the infirmary, spoke briefly to Madam Pomfrey, and then, instead of leaving without a word, actually turned to Harry and told him—without a single sneer or scowl—to make sure to get a Professor or one of the patrolling Aurors to escort him safely back to the Great Hall when he was done. 

It was beyond strange. Not to say that Harry wasn’t grateful that he’d somehow stumbled upon the right thing to say to get his most hated teacher to help him out, but he didn’t think he was that good at giving speeches. Then again, maybe he wasn’t giving himself enough credit. After all, the Sorting Hat had promised that being in Slytherin would make him great. Now he just had to figure out what he’d done so he could repeat it.

“Yes, sir, and thank you,” Harry said, putting a hand on his chest over his green striped tie to draw attention to it and giving a little bow, the respectful but wary kind Valeria had taught them to use when dueling. Snape seemed to appreciate it, glancing at the tie instead of Harry’s face before nodding farewell. As Snape turned to leave he looked over his shoulder and opened his mouth as if to bestow a parting insult, only to pause with a look of consternation on his face. Huffing, looking more frustrated with himself than with Harry, he jerked away and left. 

Something about associating Harry with green had struck a chord in Snape, one that made him start looking at Harry like a wallet he’d found on the sidewalk and didn’t intend to give back instead of like a rank pile of dog poop he’d stepped in and needed to scrape off his boot. Harry would take it. Better to be something worth stealing than something that belonged in the trash. Snape still wasn’t actually seeing Harry when he looked at him, just a tool of some sort, but having value still put Harry in a better position than before. He’d have to figure out how to take advantage of it later (if that was even possible).

Madam Pomfrey led him through the central aisle of the infirmary towards the back of the room. The beds on either side were either curtained off or open to show students in various stages of recovery from either sickness or spell damage—including the group of missing Slytherins who’d pranked the wrong people. A door near the back opened to a private room housing the petrified: four students, one ghost, and one cat. 

“Just let me know when you’re finished, Mr. Potter, and I’ll call for someone to escort you,” Madam Pomfrey said and then left him to his visit. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked into the room and let the door close at his back. As soon as his eyes found Hermione he jolted as if he’d been hit in the chest with a Bludger. He thought he’d been prepared for what he’d see. He'd been wrong. Jerking his face away, he closed his eyes, but the image had already been imprinted inside his eyelids. It made him want to cry. And break something.

To start with, Hermione looked horribly uncomfortable. Stiff, bushy, sandstone-colored curls covered most of her face, hiding her eyes and the curve of nose and cheek, exposing only the grey of her lips, open in mid-shout with the corners turned down in fear. Her left shoulder hung over the side of the bed to accommodate the way her arm twisted behind her back with the palm facing away and fingers flexed, as if she’d been trying to push Halle to safety during the attack. With her body petrified in that pose, there was probably no way to lay her on the bed in a way that looked comfortable, not that it should matter since she couldn’t feel if she was uncomfortable or not, but it mattered to Harry. Hermione deserved better. Not being able to help, even with something so small as making her comfortable in the bed, made him feel weak and powerless. He hated feeling powerless.

Snape had told them that Hermione and Halle had been petrified near the library by the statue of the knight riding a boar. Harry knew that statue. He remembered watching Professor Lockhart preening in the shiny surface of the knight’s shield. Had Hermione seen the reflection of her attacker just before it struck? Or had she walked past the statue without even seeing it, ignorant of any danger until the moment of violence? 

He needed to stop dawdling. Throat tight, he wanted nothing more than to find himself waking up after a too-real nightmare. The sound of a group of girls jerked Harry from his thoughts—their voices reaching his ears as whispers too faint to hear clearly. He forced himself to breathe through the pain and counted to five on the exhale. He needed to get started on his apology before someone interrupted. He needed to… but he wasn’t ready to face Hermione yet. Not yet. After all, what were a few more minutes of procrastination after all of these months?

Feeling weak and ashamed—but not enough to force himself to act—Harry moved towards Colin Creevy and Justin Finch-Fletchley. “Sorry guys,” he said uncomfortably. 

Nothing else came to mind, so he went to Halle’s bed next, conveniently putting his back to where Hermione lay so still and cold and lifeless. With the colors of Halle’s body washed out by petrification, her similarity to Myrtle was more pronounced than ever. She must’ve been petrified mid-fall since her now-grey pigtails had flown forward to bracket her pale neck like an exaggerated shirt collar and her shoulders and arms curled forward. Like Hermione, the pose looked strange and unnatural for a body lying on its back as it ignored the usual laws of gravity. 

Petrification had drained Halle’s green striped tie of color, turning it grey and black. Glancing over at Creevy and Finch-Fletchley, Harry found that he couldn’t tell that their ties had ever had color either. In here, house affiliation was just as meaningless as blood status. Everyone was equal. All were victims.

“I’m sorry, Halle,” Harry said, straightening the sheet over her chest even though he knew she couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything. “I wish I knew what had done this so I could stop it. You deserved better than this. I know it might’ve seemed like most of Slytherin didn’t like you, but it wasn’t true. I mean, Slytherin is full of jerks, especially for someone who isn’t naturally dominant like you are, but I’ve discovered that when you ignore their words and the rumors and focus on actions, a lot of Slytherins are pretty nice. You should pay more attention. I was always nice to you,” he said pointedly. 

“We got along pretty well when I was tutoring you in defense before you started believing the rumors and avoiding me. Plus, Flint actually lets you curl up on his back. You know he wouldn’t do that for just anybody. He was willing to fight me when he thought I might’ve hurt you, even though that would’ve meant I also had the power to control the creature who’s sneaking around petrifying everyone and could’ve tried to hurt him back.” Harry was still annoyed by that, though he didn’t hold it too against Flint since the other boy had believed Harry’s denials and said sorry right after, going so far as to support him during his little break down.

Thinking over all he’d just said, Harry winced and ruffled the back of his hair sheepishly. “Okay, that didn’t come out right. Sorry.” It was easier to say sorry the more he practiced… and when the stakes were so low. “I didn’t come visit just to say I told you so or something like that. Let me start over.” 

Clearing his throat, he crossed his arms behind his back. “I’m sorry you got attacked and I hope you get fixed soon. A lot of us are worried about you and we’re looking forward to you getting better and coming back when the Mandrake Potion is finished. If you need help catching up with homework when you wake up just let me know if I can help and I will, though there are obviously people a lot better at schoolwork than me.” People like Hermione in the next bed over, he thought with a pang. “I’m sure you know by now that I had nothing to do with this and—and I hope we can try to be friends again when you’re better.” 

He didn’t know what else to add and the whispers at the edge of his hearing were getting louder, though the sound in the room was weird and made it seem like it was coming from the empty room at his back instead of from outside the closed door in the main infirmary. Rubbing his hands together to generate some warmth, Harry awkwardly patted Halle’s stiff arm. “Goodbye for now.”

Straightening his shoulders, Harry turned and forced his feet to move. He kept his eyes down, staring at how time had unevenly worn the grey stone beneath his feet until he fetched up against Hermione’s bedside. A white sheet draped over her legs without a single wrinkle, like shrouded furniture in an abandoned house. 

Bracing himself, Harry lifted his eyes to see Hermione. She looked cold. That was his first thought. Hermione wasn’t supposed to look cold, she was warm hugs and passionate explanations, sun-kissed cheeks, highlights in her hair, and eyes like the first sip of hot cocoa after flying through gently falling snow, was every shade of bark and earth at high noon in summer. Thick, distinct corkscrew curls fell back from the cool marble of her brow like spires on a crown, bringing his eyes to the delicate eyelashes lying so still upon her pale cheeks and the curve of her barely parted lips. 

He couldn’t fool himself into thinking her merely asleep because she wasn’t breathing. Even when absorbed in a new book she was never this still—eyes flicking back and forth down the page, catching her breath at something exciting, wrinkling her brow in thought, or silently mouthing a particularly clever turn of phrase or difficult concept. It made him feel unbearably sad. His chest hurt and it felt like the air was becoming too thick to breathe. 

If that wasn’t enough, his mind was playing tricks on him. Today had been… a lot. He could’ve sworn that when he’d first walked in and glimpsed her face, it had been mostly covered by bushy curls with her mouth opened in a shout. Now she looked like a serene sculpture of a sleeping queen on a royal tomb. He reminded himself again that she wasn’t dead, just petrified. 

And she would. get. better. She would!

“Hi Her _ mi _ one,” Harry’s voice cracked on her name. He cleared his throat and refused to release the stinging tear slowly sliding towards the center of his eyelid and blurring his vision. “It’s me, Harry. I’m here to say I’m sorry, so… I’m sorry.” 

Nothing changed. Hermione didn’t suddenly wake up with a smile. He didn’t suddenly feel better.

In the distance the whispers multiplied. One rose above the others and then the rest of the crowd chorused, “Shhhh...” in a sibilant hiss until all of the whispers faded away beyond the edge of hearing, leaving behind an expectant silence. Feeling watched, Harry hunched and looked over his shoulder and around the room, but the door was still shut and he was alone. It was theoretically possible that a bunch of people were hiding under invisibility cloaks, but there didn’t seem like enough space in the room for that many people, much less a reason to do so. His mind must be playing tricks on him again. The whispering crowd had to be out in the main room with the other patients. Maybe Pomfrey had finally kicked them out for being too loud. That would explain the sudden silence. Not that they mattered, Harry thought, turning back to Hermione sadly.

Reaching into his pocket, Harry carefully pulled out the small flag he’d made to celebrate how amazing she was. He traced the HG of her initials with his fingertip and blinked rapidly, pushing away the persistent sting. He really hadn’t expected the day to end like this. Breath hitching, he tapped the shaft to turn the animation on and propped the flag up next to her bed so she’d have something cheerful to look at if she woke up.  _ When  _ she woke up. Not if. She wasn’t dead, merely sleeping, he reminded himself again, no matter what it looked like. This wasn’t permanent.

He rubbed his wrist across his running nose and sniffed. This sucked. It wasn’t fair.

Words suddenly burst from his lips like salmon swimming upstream, desperately trying to jump over a waterfall and having to constantly fight against the pounding water and pull of gravity trying to drag them back down into the deep, back to where they’d come from instead of where they needed to go. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. I screwed up. I’m sorry for what I said and did and that it took me so long to come and talk to you. I’m sorry you got petrified, sorry you got hurt. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough to figure this out and that the adults weren’t good enough either. I’m sorry no one protected you.” 

Gulping down air, feeling wretched, Harry lost the strength to stay standing, falling to his knees by her side with bruising force. He was feeling too much, but the emotions wouldn’t stop. He’d tried so hard today. He’d kept his promise to apologize to her face. Shouldn’t he feel better? But he didn’t. It was too late. Everything that made Hermione’s soul shine was gone, locked away in a stone prison. He’d pushed and pushed himself, humbling himself before everyone—his friends, the Weasleys, his housemates, and even Snape—and still it hadn’t been good enough. If only he hadn’t been so scared and gone to talk to her right after the game, maybe then he could’ve protected her from this. If he’d been a better person, a better friend, and apologized months ago, would she have even gone to the library after the game? Or would she have come straight to lunch to celebrate with him and avoided the attack?

Maybe the Dursleys had been right about him. Kneeling next to Hermione’s body, Harry felt so small and helpless, so weak and stupid. What good was his magic if it couldn't help the people he cared about? He swallowed hard and pressed her stiff hand between his palms as if he could somehow warm it back to softness, could fix her by willing it strongly enough. 

It didn’t work, but even cold and stiff it was still Hermione’s hand and just holding it made him feel a little better. If she knew what he was thinking right now she’d be very cross. Even after all he’d done, she still cared about him. Merlin only knew why, but she did. She’d chosen to catch him instead of the Snitch when he’d fallen off his broom (he could admit that now) and she’d come to see him before his last game, fixed his glasses, and told him to be careful. 

“Maybe I am dumb and slow, but I’m also very stubborn. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t give up on you, Hermione. I haven’t been a good friend, but I want to be better. I will be better. They’re going to finish the Mandrake Potion in a couple of months and you’re going to wake up. I wish you could tell me what had attacked you so I could make sure it’s gone by then.” Sighing, Harry pressed his hot forehead to her cold hand. “I hope you’ll give me a second chance. I won’t take you for granted again, I promise. Please come back to me, Hermione. I’m sorry for everything. Please be my friend again. Please forgive me.” 

The tears he’d been fighting finally escaped, rolling down his cheeks as if unzipping his thoughts so all of the regret and pain and sadness spilled out. Harry rocked on his knees and sobbed, loud in the quiet of the room, so loud it almost drowned out the sound of a faint, comforting, “Shhh…” from directly overhead.

Biting back the next sob in his throat, Harry froze and listened for more words. 

None came. 

Just when he decided that he must be imagining things again, he felt the petrified fingers pressed against his forehead... twitch. 

Rearing back, Harry’s head shot up. Hermione’s eyes were open. HER EYES WERE OPEN.

Harry jumped to his feet and leaned over her. “Hermione! It’s me, Harry. I’m here. You’re safe!” 

A curl slowly slid down in front of her ear and another crawled across her throat. Except for the brown of her eyes and faint pink in her lips, the rest of her body remained stiff and colored in pastels. Harry gulped a breath. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, Hermione. Please!” Tears dripped off his cheeks and onto Hermione’s throat, sliding down and disappearing into the stiff spirals of her hair. “Please,” he repeated, breath hitching as his thoughts spun frantically.

Hermione’s eyes trembled and slowly focused on his face. “Yesss,” she said with great effort, so soft that no breath puffed against his face despite how close she leaned. 

Lips trembling, Harry clutched her still stiff hand. His mind was racing. He didn’t know what was happening or even how, but he was so grateful. So grateful. She was waking up. It was a miracle. 

“Thank you,” he gasped wetly to both her and to the universe. She was back. She was going to be okay. Pressing his lips together and swallowing, Harry tried to get a hold of himself. He needed to be strong and stop crying. “You—you’re in the infirmary. You’re safe.” He gulped another breath and wiped at his wet face. “You’re safe here.” A thought struck him. “Do you—do you know what attacked you?” 

“Ba...sss….” Her eyes looked scared.

Harry reached out to cup her cheek and curled over her face, wanting her to know that she wasn’t alone. “Hey, I’m listening. I’m here. What’s a bass?” She mouthed something, but no sounds escaped. “I don’t—I don’t know what that means.” He gently rubbed her cheek, trying to work in some warmth as he moved his ear closer to her mouth to better hear. His heart stuttered as the skin beneath his fingertips chilled and stiffened. “Hey, no, stay with me. Stay awake. Help me, Hermione. Don’t go, don’t go!”

Fog rolled across the surface of her eyes, bleaching brown to grey as her eyelids slipped to half mast, sending Harry’s heart into a nosedive. Hermione exhaled, a faint puff of air against his jaw. “No...tesss….lo...ck….” 

“You left notes? Locked up somewhere? I don’t understand,” Harry begged. “Please! Don’t go!”

Hermione stopped responding. Harry pressed his damp cheek against her lips but they were hard and cold. No sound nor air moved through them. He frantically searched her face but what little warm color she’d regained had drained from her mouth and cheeks. She seemed more like stone than ever before, the hue of her hair and skin becoming an almost uniform gray.

“No, no, no!” Harry tapped her stiff cheeks and shook her marbled shoulders to no avail. The sharp edges of her curls bit gouges from his skin but he barely noticed. “Hermione! Wake up! Hermione!” he screamed, trying to get her to talk again as blood from his knuckles left wet streaks on her neck and chin.

“Mister Potter!” snapped Madam Pomfrey as she rushed into the room. “Get a hold of yourself! You are disturbing the other patients!”

Desperate, Harry straightened up and turned to Madam Pomfrey with desperate eyes. “Please, help! She—she woke up! She spoke to me.” 

Eyes widening, Pomfrey moved closer to Hermione and cast several spells. After only a moment she gave a soft sigh and lowered her wand, turning back to Harry. “I’m sorry, Mister Potter, but Miss Granger is still petrified. It is impossible for her to wake up on her own.” Sending Harry a sympathetic look, she told him gently, “I’m afraid you’ve become overwrought by events and only imagined her speaking. Or perhaps you dozed off and dreamed it.”

Sucking in air through his teeth, Harry straightened his back and tried to get his voice to sound confident instead of shrill. “I didn’t imagine it or fall asleep. Look at Hermione’s hair and the position of her arm. They’re different now. Her face is uncovered and her eyes are partially open. They weren’t before. Her arm is still back but the fingers are no longer tensed. She shifted and spoke to me. That’s proof. She did!”

“And what did she tell you?” the nurse asked very gently, focusing on Harry instead of Hermione, as if he was the one with the problem, as if he’d cracked.

Harry fisted a hand in his robe and struggled with his temper, sucking in air through his nose and releasing a breath before speaking. “I was saying sorry and asking her to forgive me. She said yes. Then I asked her if she’d seen what had attacked her. She got out the words bass, notes, and lock before—” Harry had to stop and swallow “—before becoming petrified again.”

“I see. Mr. Potter, I think you would benefit from a calming draught and perhaps a good night's sleep in a bed instead of a cot. You’ll stay here tonight, I think.”

“I don’t need to stay here,” Harry spoke through gritted teeth. “Just—just look at her! Can’t you see she’s different?”

Sighing, Madam Pomfrey’s brow creased as she examined Hermione again. “To be honest, I—I don’t quite remember how she was positioned when she came in, but to just wake up from petrification naturally without any potion or other intervention is sadly impossible. Not unless—well—that’s extremely unlikely, especially in a muggleborn.”

“What? What’s unlikely?” Harry asked eagerly, stepping closer.

She looked away uneasily. “No, forget I said anything. I’m sorry, Mr. Potter, but you need to try to calm down and turn your mind to something else. All is not lost. Remember that petrification is only temporary because of the Mandrake Restorative Potion.” Smiling gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder and firmly guided him out of the room.

Harry felt so frustrated he wanted to scream, but that would just convince Pomfrey that he really had gone crazy and make her even less likely to tell him anything.

Out in the main room they unexpectedly ran into Ron Weasley, who was standing just inside the doorway with his arms wrapped around himself, shifting uneasily as he looked around. 

“What can I help you with, Mr. Weasley?” Madam Pomfrey asked, patting Harry’s shoulder and giving him a little shove towards an empty bed.

On seeing Harry, Weasley glared, his hands dropping to his sides in loose fists and his jaw clenching, bringing a red flush to his freckled cheeks. “I’m here to see Hermione.”

“Why,” Harry demanded protectively. Weasley had never been particularly nice to Hermione. Several times he’d been an outright jerk.

Weasley turned on Harry belligerently. “She’s in my house, not yours, Potter. I have more right to see her than you do. If I want to check on her then I can and if I want to apologize to her I’m sure I’ll do a better job than a Slytherin like you!”

Blinking rapidly, Harry scoffed. “Seriously? If this is a competition then—” 

“ _ Boys _ ,” snapped Madam Pomfrey, “this is a place of healing. Kindly lower your voices.”

Crossing his arms, Harry looked away from Weasley. The redhead mirrored him, lip sticking out petulantly.

“Mr. Potter, please make yourself comfortable in the bed. Mr. Weasley,” Madam Pomfrey gestured towards the back room, “you may visit Miss Granger for ten minutes and then I’m sending you back to the Great Hall. If you notice anything unusual, call for me at once.”

Weasley’s brow furrowed as he gave the nurse a confused look. “More unusual than being petrified?” He scratched the back of his head.

Lips pinching, she shooed him forward. “Indeed. Now off you go.”

Harry felt slightly better, knowing that Pomfrey hadn’t completely ignored what he’d said, even if she didn’t quite believe him either. At least she was allowing for the possibility. If only she’d tell him what extremely unlikely thing might explain how Hermione had managed to wake up for a minute.

Plopping down on the bed, Harry set his mind to the mystery of Hermione’s words. It was safer than to think of how he’d thought for a moment that she was going to be okay only to have that hope stolen from him, leaving him feeling even worse. He hadn’t imagined her waking up, he hadn’t! So what had she meant by  _ bass, notes,  _ and _ lock _ ? 

Bass could be just the start of the word, but if it wasn’t… well. A bass was a type of non-magical fish. Were there magical fish that could petrify you? Though even if there were, how was a fish getting through the castle to attack people? Was it a fish that breathed in air? A flying fish? Could he catch it using some worms and a fishing pole? Though if it could fly and breath in air, was it even a fish anymore? The more he thought about it the more stupid it sounded.

The only other type of bass he’d heard about was a musical instrument. Could there be cursed music that petrified people when you heard it? It wouldn’t surprise Harry, but the Chamber of Secrets was supposed to hold a creature, not a cursed object, and if it was a cursed musical instrument who was playing it? Bringing him back to square one.

Harry couldn’t think of anything else called a bass, especially not anything magical. He’d have to ask his friends. 

The word  _ notes  _ was pretty self-explanatory—Hermione must’ve written down what she’d found out about the creature in a book before being attacked. 

_ Lock _ , however, was another tricky one. Were the notes locked up somewhere as he’d first assumed? Had she given them to Professor Lockhart? Or were they inside a locket somewhere? Though a locket wouldn’t hold many notes and Hermione didn’t wear jewelry like that, though her roommates might. To be honest, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if Lockhart wore a locket with a picture of himself inside, though how Hermione would’ve gotten access to it or why she’d leave a clue there was another mystery.

Madam Pomfrey brought him a calming draught and watched him expectantly until he drank it down. Harry’s whirling thoughts fluttered to a pause in his mind, stilling on an image of a bass fish with a bubble around its head playing a bass guitar. He cleared his throat to keep from smiling dopily. Wow, those calming draughts were ni-i-ice. He banished the stupid image and returned the bottle to the nurse.

“I feel much better now, Madam Pomfrey. Thank you.” Harry bowed his head and tried to look contrite. “I think I’ll rest better with my friends. May I go back to the Great hall?” He stood up and took a step towards the door, as if her agreement were a foregone conclusion. Draco and Pansy loved using that tactic.

Pomfrey hummed. “Well, I suppose so, though you will need an escort. I’ll call someone as soon as Mr.—”

The door in the back opened and Weasley rushed out, puffing and looking uncomfortable. He pressed a hand to his chest and looked around the room, pausing for a moment to watch a game of wizard chess being played by two of the jinxed Slytherins.

“Mr. Weasley,” Pomfrey said, “are you alright?”

“Huh?” Weasely looked up and flushed bright red. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just a little… unnerving in there. Quiet. Weird.”

Nodding at him sympathetically, Pomfrey went out into the corridor and returned with a dark-skinned woman Harry didn’t recognize, probably one of the Aurors. She impatiently escorted Harry and Weasley to the Great Hall without a word, gesturing inside. “Off you go, boys.” She closed the door at their back firmly once they were inside. The two boys exchanged an uncomfortable look and parted ways without another word, going to their sleeping cots on opposite sides of the room.

Harry had intended to enlist his friends' help right away, but the expression on Draco’s face was a clear sign he wasn’t in the mood to help anyone and Blaise was sitting off to the side surrounded by a group of giggling girls. 

Valeria was still wedged into her corner with the blanket hanging over her head and shadowing her face, making it impossible to tell if she was awake or sleeping. The students in the three closest cots were clearly petrified and not just sleeping. Harry wisely decided to leave her alone.

As soon as Harry sat down on his cot to try and decide what he should do, he felt swamped by exhaustion. Today had been a very long day. His eyelids drooped. He wanted to solve the riddle and help Hermione, but if it was something easy Madam Pomfrey would have figured it out from what he’d told her. Wouldn’t she? Though she hadn’t believed Harry. He was getting used to not being believed but nevertheless, he couldn’t give up. Not on Hermione. Not now. Slipping off his shoes, Harry lay back and rested his eyes, just for a moment. Then he’d get up and figure this all out. Just...in...a…mo...ment….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your comments, kudos, favorites, and bookmarks mean so much to me. Every day I check my email to see if anyone cares and you do. It means the world to me! Thank you very much for enjoying this story with me! 
> 
> I’m sorry my updating has slowed down. The words have really been fighting me the last two chapters. I’m going to push through it, but until that happens the updates might not be as rapid or as long. I know how things are going for the rest of year two’s plot, I just need to get my brain and fingers to cooperate to get it down in a document. 
> 
> [Complaining to come. Feel free to skip] 
> 
> January has also been rough for me. I get sick every winter but this one has been worse, even with quarantine! My son had a covid scare that wasn’t bad, thankfully, and I got a cold, got better, got a worse cold, started getting better, got food poisoning from seafood, almost recovered, then my perpetually irregular period hit me in the gut with a hammer and made me wish for death as nausea, cramps, headaches, and exhaustion assailed me. I might finally break down and go to a doctor about it as soon as I finish this cycle. I think I’ve got PCOS, which makes everything just swell, so... yeah…. Plus depression and anxiety and lack of motivation or energy (aren’t we all battling that lately?). I also haven’t been sleeping well for months. I hate going to the doctors so I avoid it. But my body feels like it is really breaking down on me the last couple of years and my family deserves better, so I probably need to suck it up and see if there’s anything to be done. Bleargh.
> 
> And (being more a small annoyance) to add insult to injury, my favorite soda pop here in the USA, Coke Zero, was sold out at the store so I tried Pepsi Zero instead and it was gross. I like both Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi so I thought it would be fine. It wasn’t. Grr. I’ve also been unable to find another favorite of mine—peach flavored Fresca. And the new liquid hand soap I bought for the bathrooms is totally watered down compared to how it used to be, which is also frustrating and weird. 
> 
> [Done for now]
> 
> Thank you to my betas — Iforgottocall and dizzysappedweak! They are so helpful and I really appreciate their help in shaping this story to be better and cheering me on. I am very lucky they are helping me out.


	12. Second Year - Locker Room Pranks

“Go flying with me.” 

Flint’s unexpected voice made Harry jump. His quill stuttered, leaving a splotch of ink on his scroll. Frustrated, Harry finished crossing out his latest disproved theory about what Hermione had meant by the words  _ bass, notes,  _ and _ lock _ before looking up. The scroll kept getting bigger, but he was no closer to an answer—no closer to protecting his remaining friends or avenging the attack on Hermione. 

It was the first week of April, almost a month after Hermione had been petrified, and Harry still hadn’t figured out Hermione’s clues. Hermione hadn’t moved or opened her eyes again, neither the creature nor the Chamber of Secrets had been found, and Dumbledore was still banished from Hogwarts. Everyone thought he was crazy for claiming that Hermione had spoken while petrified, even his friends. 

In fact, the only person who seemed to believe him was Moaning Myrtle, though part of that seemed to be tied to Halle Harper potentially being her great-niece and Myrtle’s hypothesis that if ghosts like Nearly Headless Nick could be petrified then maybe the petrified could become ghosts. Giggling and dancing with excitement, Myrtle had told Harry that when Halle and Hermione became ghosts they could turn her favorite bathroom into a ghost girls dorm room and terrorize everyone who thought making fun of ghosts was even the littlest bit funny. Harry, of course, could come and visit whenever he liked. 

“If you die too, you could live in the boys bathroom next door to mine!” Myrtle had said with a dreamy smile. 

Harry had winced. “Thanks, but I—I don’t think I want to be a ghost.” Seeing her expression start twisting into hurt and outrage, he’d quickly added, “Yet! I’m not ready yet. Obviously you’re a very inspirational ghost, but who knows if I’d be as good of a ghost as you, yeah? So I want to keep living. I’ve still got things to do, is all. Thanks for the offer though. It was really—really nice...and sweet of you. So thanks.” And then Harry remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere and fled.

Flint was still staring at Harry expectantly, waiting for an answer to his invitation, the furrow between his heavy brows an almost permanent fixture these days. His nose and cheeks looked an uncomfortable red—likely sunburned—and his lips were wind chapped with a dark scab beneath the curve from where the skin must’ve split. The corner of his jaw had a long red welt as if he’d run into a tree branch and his hair looked wild and windblown.

Blinking, Harry rewound what Flint had said in his mind. “What, flying? Me? Now?” 

“Yes, now. I still feel jittery. I need to get out into the sky again. C’mon, Harry. Up.”

Slytherin should’ve been playing a game against Hufflepuff today, but the Board of Governors had cancelled the season until the creature petrifying students was caught. It was a stupid and meaningless precaution. There was nothing more dangerous about gathering for a Quidditch game than gathering for meals and classes and those hadn’t been cancelled. The new restrictions put into place were arbitrary, inconsistent, and frustrating. 

Draco had complained to his father about it and been told that until they captured the creature at fault, the Board and the Ministry needed to give the impression to parents that they were doing something to keep students safe. It was about politics and appearances. Draco had also told them that his father had decided that the only explanation for Halle Harper’s attack was that she wasn’t a half-blood after all. Since her mother of record was definitely a witch, Halle must’ve been born to Muggles and secretly adopted or stolen, probably switched with a Squib child to hide the embarrassment. 

“You can’t be serious,” Harry had said with disgust. “Where’s the proof of that?”

Shrugging one shoulder, Draco set his chin and met his eyes belligerently. “The creature did attack Harper and it’s only supposed to attack Muggleborns since they have dirty blood. Supposedly. So that proves it.” 

“ _ Supposedly _ ,” Harry spat. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! Is ‘secretly stolen from Muggles’ going to be your father’s excuse every time someone gets attacked from now on no matter who they are? If we pretend the victims are expendable does that make it okay?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed and went hard as soon as Harry mentioned his father. “Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it isn’t true! I think my father knows more about how the world works than an orphan like you.” He sneered.

Teeth bared, Harry got up in Draco’s face. “Oh really? So what if you get attacked next? Are you going to be okay when your father goes to the press saying that being attacked proves you aren’t really his son? That it must mean you were just some kid your mom stole from a Muggle’s front lawn and tried to pass off as his? That it means you’re dirty and deserved it, Draco?”

Needless to say, after that hexes and fists started flying and the two had to be dragged away from each other kicking and screaming. It had taken several days before Harry and Draco could talk to each other civilly again. To keep the peace they avoided talking about the subject altogether and Harry kept his progress with Hermione’s clues to himself.

“C’mon, Harry, get a move on,” Flint ordered sharply.

“Okay, hold on.” Packing away his scroll of failed theories, quill, and ink, Harry shoved his bag onto a wall hook in the common room so it wouldn’t get stepped on and followed Flint out the door, skipping a few steps to try and keep up with the taller boy’s long strides. “Are we flying with anyone else? Or just you and me?” 

Flint rolled his shoulders as if his skin didn’t fit right. “I already went flying with Miles and Terence all morning and Dulcina and Artemis yesterday. They all need a break before I break them, so you’re up next. You got a problem with that?” 

The look on his face made Harry gulp and square his shoulders, bracing himself for a flight more bruising than lighthearted. “No, I’m with you, Captain.”

Running a hand through his hair, Flint’s lips flattened. “Good.” His other hand opened and closed at his side. Sending Harry a sideways glance, Flint blew out his breath. “I need to fly or fight right now and as much as smashing my fist into Wood’s smug face or brawling with the entire Hufflepuff team would feel really good right now,” eyes burning, he tongued the split in his lip, bringing forth a fresh bead of bright red blood, “I can’t risk detention, not when she—” his breath stuttered for a moment “—not when I might be needed in—in the common room in the evenings.”

Harry should’ve left that comment well alone, but he was concentrating on going fast enough to keep up with Flint without tripping over his feet and his brain to mouth filter failed him. “Valeria’s still avoiding you? Maybe I could talk to her? Or I could go back and ask her to go flying with me and not say you’re coming too?”

If the hand shooting towards him had aimed for his face instead of his chest, Harry probably would have a broken nose. As it was, Flint grabbed the front of Harry’s robe before he could flinch back, lifted him onto his toes, and shook him hard enough to make him bite his tongue. “No! Leave her alone. If she wants to talk to me, she’ll talk to me.” He glared to make his point.

Harry was intimidated by the look but wasn’t about to cower away. The throbbing of his bit tongue made him mad. He ripped Flint’s hand away and scowled, resentful at the manhandling. “I’m only trying to help you out. You don’t have to be a git about it.”

Flint grimaced and dropped his eyes, anger turning to heartbreak as he spoke in a wavering tone, “Not today. She cut her hair again this morning.”

“Oh.” Harry used the excuse of straightening his robe to look away from the pain in Flint’s face and hide his own. Was that the third time this month she’d shaved her head? Or the fourth? It made him feel helpless, like he was failing Valeria somehow too. His mood—already unsteady from the cancelled game and lack of progress with Hermione’s clues—sank even further. 

“Well—maybe—maybe on another day—a better day? I—I could pretend to need her help with something and we could accidentally run into you or—or maybe I could accidentally lock you two in the broom shed until you worked it out? I know she’d be happier if you two could work things out,” Harry said in a rush. “Even though she won’t say it, I can tell she misses you.” Valeria had been so much happier after she and Flint had gotten together. Harry wanted that back for her. He wanted to be able to fix something for someone he cared about, even if he couldn’t fix things for himself.

Flinching, Flint grabbed Harry’s arm and started towing him up the stairs. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry, how stupid are you? Ambushing Valeria is a horrible idea. The only things said would be the shrieking of curses and then my funeral rights, followed shortly thereafter by yours.” His tone went low and gruff. “You can’t force a girl like Valeria to do anything, you have to coax her.” He cleared his throat. “Haven’t you ever gone hunting for food or ridden a hippogriff? It takes patience.”

“Hunting and riding?” Harry scoffed, trying to catch his breath at the rapid pace and think of something to do to help that wasn’t stupid. “I’m from the muggle suburbs, not some manor house. Growing up my food came from tins and we rode cars, not hippos.”

“Hippogriffs.”

“Whatever,” Harry huffed as they finally readed the landing and moved towards the nearest door leading outside. Keeping his eyes forward, he opened and closed his mouth, carefully picking and choosing what to say next. As much as he disliked being manhandled by Flint, he very much respected and cared about the intimidating older boy and wanted to help fix his relationship with Valeria. “You know… even with the Quidditch season cancelled, Valeria still interrogates me after every practice. She thinks she’s being sneaky, but she always drops her eyes before casually asking about how you’re doing.”

Lips quirking sadly, Flint pushed out into the sunshine, squinting at the light bouncing off the pale clouds. “I’d rather she just asked me.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say to that.

The air was cool but not cold as they made their way around the corner of the castle, taking a shortcut outside towards the wing of the castle housing the Quidditch locker rooms. Flint pulled in a deep breath and released it as a sigh. “I worry about her,” he flicked a glance at Harry and something went strange and hard in his eyes—jealousy or suspicion, it was hard to tell. “What else do you talk about—exactly? Besides Quidditch.” His tone was strangely light and didn’t fit his body language. It made Harry’s stomach swoop uneasily. “You seem to be the only one she allows close lately. What does she say? What secrets does she tell you?”

Harry’s lips went flat and he stopped walking, crossing his arms. A cool breeze ruffled his hair but did nothing to cool his temper. There were lines. Just because they were friends and Harry was a subordinate on the team didn’t mean he would roll over and let himself be manipulated or forced. 

Flint turned and looked back at Harry, eyebrows rising in a silent demand for answers. The older boy shifted, putting his hands on his hips and leaning forward to make himself bigger and more commanding. “Well?” he demanded in a voice used to obedience. “Start talking.”

Breathing in hard through his nose, Harry looked up and met Flint’s eyes with challenge. “If you keep disrespecting me I’m going to stop respecting you. I am not so poor a friend as to betray secrets just for the asking, even for you. I know you like her. I know you care. That does not entitle you to anything and if you think it does... you don’t deserve her.” Harry pressed his lips flat to stop himself from saying more.

“Are you trying to get me mad?” Brows lowering, Flint looked Harry up and down with darkening eyes. “I just want information, but I’m okay with skipping flying in favor of fighting.” He stepped forward and kept trying to stare Harry down, the muscles in his arms and jaw jumping threateningly as he loomed over Harry, knuckles cracking as his hands fisted, as formidable-seeming in that moment as the troll in the bathroom from first year, but much less stupid. “We both know I’ll win.”

Despite the voice gibbering in the back of his mind, Harry didn’t have it in him to drop his eyes. His cheeks felt on fire as anger sizzled beneath his skin. “Do we?” He slid his wand into his hand and lifted his chin higher, refusing to back down. Refusing to concede. “You might bloody my body or hex me stupid. Maybe you’ll even go so far as to make me scream with pain, but you know what you won’t win? The answers you want.” He bared his teeth and leaned forward. “I’d bite my tongue off before giving you the satisfaction, so  _ piss off _ .” 

A cloud passed over the sun, casting Flint’s face into shadow. Harry felt ice drag down his spine and braced himself for pain.

Then the cloud moved, the sun came back out, and the threat on Flint’s face disappeared with the shadows. Stepping back, the sixth-year tossed his head and snorted. “You little bastard, I should tan your hide for that.” Flint turned away and ran a hand through his hair. Gripping the base of his neck, he growled. “But as satisfying as that might be in the moment, I know I’d regret it later, no matter how much on edge I am. I respect you too much not to feel guilty after,” he huffed with a sardonic twist to his lips, shooting Harry a sideways look that held apology. “You’ve got guts and loyalty in spades.”

The warmth of Harry’s anger shifted into surprised pleasure. Unsure how to respond, he looked away. He felt more unsure with the praise than he’d been about the threat of fighting.

A heavy hand landed on his head, ruffling his hair and making his glasses go crooked. “Hey!” Harry cried, ducking away with a glare.

Flint chuckled and shook his head. “You and Valeria are a pair. If your skin were darker I’d think you siblings in truth. You both try my patience.” 

Turning on his heel, Flint took off again. “Well, come on,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re supposed to be flying, not fighting, remember?”

Harry rolled his eyes and followed him. “If this is you coaxing somebody, you must really suck at hunting and riding hippos.”

“Hippogriffs!” Flint opened the door back into the castle and turned towards the hall leading to the Quidditch locker rooms.

“Whatever.” Harry didn’t bother hiding his smirk.

After over an hour of flying and dancing along the edge of death doing crazy broom stunts that would’ve gotten them kicked out of a normal game, Flint and Harry were both dripping with sweat and shaky with fatigue. By mutual agreement they decided to call it quits. The tip of Harry’s ear throbbed from when he’d mistimed a dive and slammed it into a flagpole. Landing on the grass, they dismounted their brooms and went up the tunnel back into the locker room to return their equipment and rinse off the sweat and grime from falling off their brooms a few times and rolling over the soggy grass. It wasn’t as good as playing an actual game, but the hard flight had helped Harry work off some of his frustrations and put him in a better mood.

“Hey Flint,” Harry said, feeling magnanimous.

“Yeah?”

“Valeria hasn’t told me any secrets. We just talk about classes and my theories on Hermione’s words.”

Pausing with his robes half-pulled over his arms and his sweaty back bare but for a few old bruises worn green and purple, skin pale until it reached the reddish-gold tan at his neck, Flint shot him a glare. “Seriously? Then why did you almost get in a fight with me over it?”

“Because you thought you could intimidate me into talking.” Harry pursed his lips and gave Flint a hard look. “I’m not a snitch.”

“No, you just catch them.” Flint tore off his robes the rest of the way and hit Harry with a stray elbow—sending out a wash of rank scent into the air that made Harry cough and reel back in over-exaggerated disgust. Flint gave a crooked smirk and hung the robes on the hook inside his locker. He skimmed off the rest of his dirty clothes and tossed them inside, closed the door, and started the cleaning spells. They’d be done by the time they finished showering. “Well, come on then. Let’s rinse off and you can tell me about your theories too so I’ll have something to compare with Valeria when she finally talks to me again.”

Harry could tell he was being humored. Flint didn’t believe him about Hermione either, but he desperately wanted to talk about it so he went along with it, tossing his clothing into his locker, grabbing a towel off the shelf, and following Flint into the shower room. As they each went into a curtained off stall and the water spurted on, Harry raised his voice to make sure he could be heard as he explained all of his failed theories for figuring out the meaning of  _ bass, notes,  _ and _ lock _ . It had taken him two and a half weeks to break into Lockhart’s office and rooms wearing his invisibility cloak and search them from top to bottom for notes in Hermione’s handwriting, lockets, or any carvings of fish or musical instruments—all to no avail. Despite his best efforts he’d still found nothing.

Turning off the shower, Harry grabbed his towel and roughly dried his face to stop the sting of frustrated tears from escaping. When he got himself back under control, he finished drying off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went back to his locker to get dressed. “So that’s where I’m at now,” Harry said. “Pretty much the same place where I started,” he added bitterly.

“What about her bedroom, bookbag, or trunk? Could her notes be there? Those seem the most logical places,” Flint said, dropping his towel without a care and turning away to step into fresh pants. He moved with unselfconscious grace—completely confident that he was bigger, stronger, and tougher than everyone else.

Shrugging, Harry looked away and tried not to feel self-conscious of his own scrawny build as he pulled on underwear beneath the towel and then used his towel to rub the still-dripping ends of his hair before pulling on the rest of his clothes. Not for the first time he hoped that puberty would treat him kindly and give him the height and muscles he’d always hoped for. “I got Blaise to sweet talk Hermione’s roommates into looking, but they claim nothing was there except school notes. I didn’t have any luck getting them to agree to let me come and search personally, though I’ve heard that boys can’t get up the stairs into the girls tower in Gryffindor anyway. When I asked they got angry and tried to attack me and started some new rumors about me being a pervert so now all of the Gryffindor girls are watching me like I’m trying to steal their panties or something.” Harry could feel himself turning red as Flint laughed at him loudly. 

“Anyway, I retraced her steps from what I remember of that day, going from the door of the Gryffindor common room to the Great Hall to the library—though I stupidly can’t remember what book she was looking at or even if she reshelved it or put it in her bag, back down to the hallway outside the locker rooms, and returning to the library after the game for an unknown reason before getting petrified on her way out just a couple of corridors over, but she doesn’t seem to have dropped or hidden any notes for me to find.”

Flint hummed and tossed his wet towel across the room into the dirty hamper. “Well, assuming what you heard was real—” 

“Yes, we are assuming,” Harry interrupted with irritation. It had to be real because if it wasn’t that meant she hadn’t said she forgave him either and just—no. It had been real. He had to trust in that. 

“—she couldn’t have known she was going to get attacked, right?”

“I don’t know. I guess? Unless she somehow tipped off the creature that she’d figured something out.”

Nodding slowly, Flint tilted his head to the side, eyes unfocused. “But if not… let’s say she started to figure something out but she had to run to the game and she had the notes on her that day. Bass could be the start of a word instead of a complete word or it could mean base, like the bottom of something.” He snapped his finger and turned to Harry with a grin. “What if she left the notes in the bottom of her Quidditch locker? Have you searched there?”

“No, that’s brilliant!” Harry shoved on his shoes and bounced to his feet. “But how do we get into the Gryffindor locker room?”

“We?”

“If you help me get into her locker I’ll help you prank the place.”

“If we’re going to prank it we need supplies and a plan. And Terence. If we leave him out, he’ll never forgive me.”

“I thought he didn’t approve of trickery in Quidditch?”

“Terence doesn’t like cheating to win because he doesn’t find it satisfying or honorable or some crap like that.” Flint rolled his eyes and flicked his fingers, obviously baffled by the idea. “However, psychologically terrorizing the enemy is more of a moral gray zone for him, especially since we aren’t even competing right now so it won’t have a bearing on the outcome of a match. He hates being left out and enjoys a good joke. Pranking the Gryffindor locker room is right up his alley. We should definitely bring him.”

Which was all well and good, but even after bringing in Terence and then the rest of the team and devising a series of tricks to leave in the Gryffindor locker room, they still had to figure out how to get past the password on the portrait door. 

Over the next two weeks they tried multiple ways to get in—all without success. 

The most recent had Harry in his invisibility cloak waiting earlier in the day to hear the password right when they changed it to a new one, then coming back with the rest of the team to let everyone in. The only problem was that as soon as the Slytherin team got up to the portrait and tried to say the password to the second Chaser, the Gryffindor players in the portrait all started shouting about treachery and the Chaser in question hid behind the keeper so no one could give him the password. Miles had gotten impatient and tried shouting the password when the second Chaser had peeked out, only to have the entire hallway start cheering as another player claimed Miles had been talking to him and the defenses activated and started attacking the interlopers.

“That’s right, run for ye lives ye churlish wand-wipers!” cried the Seeker from the Gryffindor portrait with a cackle as broken Snitches and crusty socks pelted Harry and his friends in the backs as they ran down the hall and skidded around the corner to safety.

“All right, I’m done with this! New plan,” Draco spat, ripping off a sports bra growing disgusting greenish-yellow fuzz off his head and tossing it to the side with a shudder. Scrubbing his fingers off in his robes, he darted a look around the empty hallway. “We can’t figure out how to trick the portrait, so one of the players has to be our weak link instead. Who’s the most dim-witted and easiest to trick? Let’s target them. Harry can follow them inside in his cloak and then let the rest of us in later on once the coast is clear.”

“Wood is too suspicious.”

“And the Weasley twins are probably too difficult to manipulate.”

“What about Skipper?”

They exchanged wicked smirks. Not even his own house liked Skipper anymore. Being injured out and shown up by the reserve Seeker two games in a row had made him foul tempered. He’d become a social pariah. 

Harry was forced to let the others take the lead on figuring out how to get Skipper to go to the locker room alone. His part was to sit and wait. He hated waiting. 

It took a week to manipulate Skipper to where they wanted him. Flint, Dulcina, and Terence were in charge of getting Skipper alone to the locker room, with Miles, Artemis, and Draco acting as lookouts and distractions for the rest of the Gryffindor team as needed. 

Hood of his cloak down, Harry impatiently paced the hallway, probably looking like a floating head to anyone who wandered past. Draco was watching for Artemis’s signal to warn Harry to put his hood up and get ready to follow Skipper inside. It was taking forever. Both Draco and Harry were getting bored and frustrated, making them irritable. It was a dangerous state for the two of them recently.

“Hey Draco?” Harry said.

“What?”

“Look behind you.”

Draco twisted around. “Why—YAH!” Jumping, he scurried backwards from the line of at least fifteen spiders trooping across the hall, up the wall, and behind the portrait of the broom racer. “I hate you. And I hate spiders! They’re so weird and creepy with all the legs and eyes and gah.” He shook out his robes jerkily, making sure nothing was climbing on him.

“Everything this year is weird and creepy,” Harry grumbled, amusement falling away as he remembered that unlike the rest of them, this wasn’t just a prank for him, it was a way to hopefully find Hermione’s notes about what creature had attacked her. “Do you see Dulcina signalling yet?”

Draco rolled his eyes and huffed. “Obviously not or I would’ve said something. I’m watching so lighten up and stop nagging.”

“How am I supposed to lighten up when there’s a creature out there attacking people indiscriminately?” Harry snapped, crumbling handfuls of invisibility cloak in his fists.

“Not indiscriminately,” Draco huffed under his breath, turning away to watch around the corner.

It made Harry mad. “Yes indiscriminately, Draco. Just look at the victims! Sure, a few are Muggleborn, but Halle wasn’t. You know that she wasn’t— _ you  _ told me that—no matter what is being said now after the fact.” 

Lips pressing tight, Draco crossed his arms, obviously trying not to get dragged back into the argument for the hundredth time. Well too bad. Harry was in the mood to argue. “Okay, so what about this? Let’s say I agree with you that the monster is so talented and precise that it can somehow sense when someone is muggleborn, even though there’s no known way to figure out blood status outside of genealogy charts. Let’s even say that it is following Salazar Slytherin’s supposed wishes to eliminate only muggleborns from the school. If those things are really true, it should mean that half-bloods and pure-bloods and everything and everyone else who isn’t a muggleborn is safe, right?” Harry stared a hole in the side of Draco’s head. “Right?”

Huffing, Draco glared over his shoulder at Harry. “Right, yes, that is how it works. I’ve said that already. My father says that the creature only targets those with dirty blood, leaving the rest of us safe. What’s your point?”

“My point?” Harry arched his brow and gave a slow, toothy smile. “If all that is true and the creature is so precise, how do you explain away the petrified cat and ghost?”

Draco opened his mouth, paused, and slowly closed his lips with a curdled milk expression.

“You can’t, can you, because it doesn’t make sense.” Harry leaned forward to press his point. “There is no dirty blood. The reality we are facing is that the attacks aren’t justified and no one is safe. Blood is just an excuse. The monster could hurt any of us at any time. That’s how monsters work. They hurt people—not out of fairness or justice, but because they  _ like the way it makes them feel _ .” 

Draco grimaced and looked away, scrunching his robes in his hands. “So what, Harry? Why does it matter? It’s not like we can do anything about it. If Dumbledore couldn’t figure it out, how do you think you’re supposed to? If Granger had actually known anything useful she wouldn’t have gotten herself petrified in the first place. You’re not going to find anything in her locker and you probably hallucinated the entire conversation because you’re obsessed with her forgiving you and you think you don’t deserve it.”

“I didn’t hallucinate anything!” Harry snapped, turning on his heel and stalking away from Draco so he didn’t give into the urge to hit him. The sharp prick of his nails breaking the skin of his palms sharpened his thoughts. “And of course I don’t deserve forgiveness—no one ever does. True forgiveness isn’t something you can force. I don’t think it’s even something you can earn, not really. There’s no formula to perfectly balance a wrong with a right, not that I’ve discovered. Forgiveness is always a gift.” Exhaling slowly, he rubbed a hand across his face and tried to explain his epiphany. “Forgiveness is a gift. All you can do is acknowledge your wrong and try to change yourself so you are worthy of receiving it and worthy of the gifter.” 

Draco paused and stared at Harry for a moment, brow furrowed in thought and grey eyes clear, so close to understanding... before shaking away the buzzing in his head and ignoring Harry’s words to return to their former argument, something worn familiar with frequent handling. “Look, no one knows anything more about the Chamber of Secrets or the creature, Harry, especially not Granger. The Chamber has been open for months and if there were any secrets to be discovered, the authorities would’ve already found them,” he told him condescendingly. 

“Maybe they did find something and we just haven’t heard about it.”

Draco kicked his foot back against the wall and looked around the corner, chin setting stubbornly. “My father would’ve told me if they had.”

Harry scoffed. “Like he told you about the Chamber being opened fifty years ago? Get a clue, Draco! Your father didn’t tell you anything until we asked him to confirm what Tom had already told us in his diary and he didn’t have a choice.” 

Pounding his fist in his palm, Harry turned and continued his pacing. “I bet Tom would’ve told us more about what happened if you hadn’t stolen the diary from me and shipped it off to your father.” He sent Draco a scowl, expecting more justifications, only to see Draco going completely still at his words, like a mouse under the shadow of a hawk.

“That’s water under the bridge,” Draco said after a moment, rolling his shoulders and keeping an eye on the distant hallway. His light tone of voice didn’t match his uneasy body language.

Harry paused in his pacing, trying to figure Draco out. “Your father does still have it, right?” he asked, knowing it was a stupid question but not wanting to give Draco the space to distract him with another topic.

“Of course.” Draco looked Harry straight in the eye and sent him a sweet smile. 

Thoughts stuttering, Harry looked Draco up and down twice. What was going on? That smile was so fake he wondered if Draco had copied it from Lockhart. 

“Well then, why don’t we write to him after this and ask him to talk to the diary and see if he can find out more about the creature?” Harry suggested, watching Draco carefully.

“He’s unlikely to listen. My father’s more smug than worried about a monster who hurts mudbloods—” seeing Harry’s mouth pop open he rolled his eyes with a flash of satisfaction, almost as if he’d purposely been trying to distract Harry with temper, “—yes, yes,  _ Muggleborns. I know. _ ”

Unfortunately, even knowing Draco was doing it on purpose wasn’t enough to keep it from working. “If you know then stop saying it! You know that’s just empty prejudice talking! Besides which, the creature isn’t just hurting Muggleborns anymore. It’s hurting everyone and there are a lot more students here who aren’t Muggleborns than those who are. The number of victims in each attack is also increasing.”

“Hagrid was arrested and his pets scattered to the wind. We’re probably fine.” Draco waved his hand dismissively.

Harry ground his teeth, feeling the ache in his jaw at the action. “No, we’re probably not. Hagrid wouldn’t hurt people and if it was a pet of his petrifying students then he would’ve told at least Dumbledore about it by now if not half of Hogsmeade—you know Hagrid can’t keep a secret to save his life—which means that Hagrid’s arrest did nothing to stop the monster and we’re all still at risk. In fact, we’re at more risk because Dumbledore is gone now too.” 

Draco’s expression was unmoved. He didn’t seem to even be listening, most of his attention focused around the corner, making Harry want to shake the other boy and scream in his face. Maybe if Harry made it more personal. “That means you’re still at risk, Draco.” 

Arching one pale brow as he turned, eyes like ice, Draco lifted his pointed chin into the air. “I’m not at risk, I’m a pureblood. I’ll be fine.” 

Harry scoffed. “Can you honestly tell me that you actually feel safe at Hogwarts right now?”

Lips thinning, Draco brushed his fingers down his robes. “My father would never put me at risk. He knows more about what’s going on than we do since he’s on the board of governors. If there was even a chance of me getting hurt, he’d pull me out and have me tutored at home.”

Grinding his teeth, Harry barely resisted the urge to start pulling out his hair by the roots. “Yeah, you keep saying that, but it’s becoming less and less believable with each repetition.” Draco’s hands fisted and his eyes flashed. There was a wand in his hand. When had that happened? Harry took a quick step back, recognizing suddenly that Draco wasn’t as unaffected as he’d been pretending. Harry didn’t want things to break into a fistfight or make Draco lose his temper and hex him and ruin their plans. They were supposed to be working together right now to trick Skipper and get into the locker room. 

However, Harry wasn’t quite willing to lose the argument either. He circled back. “Okay look, if your father cares so much about you then he must be willing to talk to the diary again to find out more about the creature to try and keep you safe. It’s not like it would be hard for him to do, right?”

“I’m done talking about this. Just drop it, Harry,” Draco said curtly.

“No, I won’t drop it. You’re being weird. What aren’t you telling me, Draco? What’s got you so wound up about this? It’s a simple request. Just ask your father. If he cares, he’ll help. What’s the big deal?”

Hands tense and arms stiff and straight at his sides, Draco glared down at his feet and muttered something too soft to catch.

“What?”

“It’s gone.”

Blinking rapidly, Harry opened and closed his suddenly dry mouth. “Wait, what? What do you mean the diary’s gone? Why didn’t you tell me before now? Did someone steal it?” He stomped closer.

Pinching his nose, Draco looked away and gave a humorless laugh. “No, he...he didn’t want it back.”

Harry felt the back of his neck go cold as a sudden suspicion bloomed in his mind. “Draco, where is the diary now?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Grabbing Draco’s arm when the other boy wouldn’t meet his eye, Harry shook him hard and demanded, “Where is it, Draco?”

Head still turned away, Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His voice was thin when he spoke. “I thought he’d thank me… thought he’d be proud and happy… but instead, he sent me a blistering note enumerating all of my faults and interrogating me on whether I’d written in the diary myself, to which I was grateful to be able to answer no so as to avoid further punishment. His next letter was wrapped around the diary itself, which he’d returned to me with orders to make sure it got lost at school again.”

“You didn’t,” Harry breathed in outrage.

Draco’s shoulders went tight. His voice became cold and even. “I immediately went to the library, placed the diary on a table when no one was looking, and walked away, since that was the plan with least risk to myself. The diary was gone when I walked by fifteen minutes later.”

“What?!” Seething, Harry let go of Draco’s arm and stomped his foot. “We need answers from Tom! Why would you do that? You could’ve at least given it back to me!”

Draco shook his head curtly. “If me writing in it is bad then obviously you writing in it would be bad too.”

“I already wrote in it and I’m fine! What does your father know about the diary that we don’t?” Harry wanted to strangle both Draco and his father.

“I don’t know, alright!” Draco snapped, throwing up his arms. “He won’t tell me! Just—just forget about the diary. It’s probably illegal or something and he doesn’t want to be caught with it by the Ministry. Your Tom was probably a liar anyway and if not, he already told you everything he knew. It doesn’t matter. Hagrid is gone and whatever creature he’d fooled himself into thinking was sweet and harmless has stopped attacking people. Without Hagrid here to feed it, the creature probably wandered off into the forest where something bigger and meaner will take care of it for us. It’s probably over.”

“Probably isn’t good enough.” Harry gritted his teeth and clenched his fists and barely stopped himself from attacking as blood pounded like a drum beneath his lightning bolt scar and anger hazed the edge of his vision. “I am so frustrated with you right now.” He stomped his foot again, the harsh thud reverberating through his bones painfully.

A jet of yellow light hit Draco in the arm, making both of them jump. “The signal! Shut up and go get ready,” Draco hissed. Reaching out, he roughly yanked the fabric of the invisibility cloak’s hood over Harry’s head and turned on his heel to sprint away in the opposite direction, fleeing the conversation just as much as trying to get out of sight before Skipper got close. 

At first, Harry had been worried about the other portraits ratting them out, but they’d been having too much fun watching the break in attempts and had mentioned that warning the Gryffindors would be unsportsmanlike.

Shoving the fate of the diary out of his mind for now—along with the urge to hex Draco in the back—Harry made sure he was completely covered by the cloak and ran over to wait by the Gryffindor portrait door. 

A few seconds later, Skipper finally came around the corner. Artemis was by his side. Confused, Harry tried not to panic. That hadn’t been part of the plan.

“You can still back out you know,” Artemis said in a flirtatious tone of voice. Then she bumped shoulders with Skipper and winked at him.

_ What?  _ Had Artemis betrayed them?

Skipper’s face went bright red as he scowled and jerked away from her touch, keeping his head down and not even glancing in Harry’s direction, much less over at the loud flap of Draco’s robe as he disappeared in the distance. “Don’t make me laugh. I know I can beat you in a race. I’m the fastest flyer in Gryffindor!” 

If true, that might explain how he’d ever even made the team. Unfortunately for Gryffindor and fortunately for Slytherin, being fast was only one part of being a good Quidditch player. Skipper was obviously missing all of the other requirements.

Artemis gave a skeptical hum. “So you say. I’d like to see it for myself. I’ll meet you on the pitch in ten minutes?” she asked with a forced smile, pausing by the Slytherin portrait door to lean against the wall and cross her arms, which coincidentally made her chest seem bigger. Harry didn’t know if it was on purpose or not but he quickly averted his eyes, feeling uncomfortable either way.

“Uh, yeah—I mean, yes.” Skipper’s voice went high pitched as he almost ran into the wall, his eyes glued to her chest. “Yes, in ten minutes.” Clearing his throat, he shook his head and frowned at her. “Though don’t go blubbering to your friends in tears when you lose.” He looked her up and down and sneered. “A girl built like you is only good for one thing and everyone knows it isn’t speed. Maybe I’ll let you show me after I win.” 

Artemis straightened from the wall, fake smile dropping as her hands tightened into fists. 

Curling his lip with satisfaction at her reaction, Skipper turned away and cupped a hand next to his mouth to hide his lips as he leaned close to the Gryffindor portrait and whispered the password to the Keeper. Harry wanted to stick a leg out and trip Skipper so he slammed his face into the wall and bloodied his nose in punishment for talking to Artemis like that, but he restrained himself. Artemis was obviously only challenging Skipper in the first place so Harry could sneak into the locker room. If he ruined that chance, he’d be the one bleeding. Besides, Artemis could tie Skipper into a pretzel if she wanted. Maybe after this was all over he’d offer to hold her cloak for her while she did it.

“Now that’s no way to speak to a fiery colleen, lad,” said one of the Gryffindor chasers in a strong Irish accent as the portrait started to open.

Skipper snorted with derision as he pushed the portrait wide. “Who cares?”

“Really, you brought this on yourself,” another player tsked disapprovingly.

Holding his breath to avoid detection, Harry hurried in after Skipper before the portrait closed. The door hit him in the back, almost making him topple. His arm jerked free of his cloak as he caught himself against the wall, but luckily Skipper was too busy muttering under his breath to notice the disembodied arm appearing behind him. Not wanting to push his luck, Harry slid it back into his cloak and moved into the corner of the room, standing still until Skipper had grabbed his broom and flying leathers and exited up the tunnel towards the pitch for his race against Artemis.

Harry didn’t have the patience to wait longer. As soon as he was sure Skipper was gone he raced over to Hermione’s locker and tried to open it. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that Hermione was an over-achieving genius with a mind like a steel trap when it came to remembering spells, never mind using them. There were four different locking spells on her locker. Four. Harry only recognized two of them and only knew the counter to one. He did what he could and then tried to force the door open. It gave him a nasty shock that flung him into the bank of lockers at his back and left a burn blister on the back of his thumb. Gingerly licking across his burn and blowing to cool it, he frowned and forced himself to step back over to the wall and wait for reinforcements.

About fifteen minutes later, Skipper came storming back into the locker room. Huffing and puffing, he threw his broom and leathers back into his locker and slammed the door shut, not even bothering to lock it before stomping back out of the room. Obviously Artemis had won their race. Good.

Twenty minutes—and several more unsuccessful attempts to unlock Hermione’s locker—later, someone knocked on the portrait door in the pre-agreed pattern. Keeping his invisibility cloak covering his face, just in case, Harry opened the door and pushed it open, allowing Flint, Terence, and Artemis to slip inside, each carrying a bulging bag of supplies. 

As soon as the door shut again, Harry pulled off his invisibility cloak and stuffed it into his robe pocket. “Any problems?” Harry asked as they unloaded their bag of pranks onto the nearest bench.

“Nope, not this time.” Terence said. “Dulcina, Draco, and Miles are making sure the rest of the Gryffindor team is too busy to go flying until we’re done here, but even so, we shouldn’t get complacent.” Terence rubbed his hands together and looked around the scarlet and gold locker room with a wide grin. 

“That’s great,” Harry said, “but I can’t get Hermione’s locker open.” He looked around for help, but everyone was distracted exploring the Gryffindor locker room. Huffing, he raised his voice. “I need help unlocking Hermione’s locker.”

“Pranks first, then the locker,” Flint said firmly, asserting his dominance. Raising his voice to address everyone, he called, “Remember, nothing too obviously Slytherin. We still need plausible deniability.” He ignored Harry’s impatient glare to stalk over to the Gryffindor lion rampant on the only open wall and pull out his wand, transfiguring the lion into a grumpy-looking lionfish trapped inside a fishbowl. He cast several wards on the image and then pulled a can of transparent paint out of one of the bags. He painted it over the image and transfigured it into a translucent blue that looked like water so that anyone trying to dispel what he’d done to the lion would get tripped up messing with the paint layer on top until they figured out that the transparent paint was there. He cast more wards on top of that too.

While Flint was busy with that, Terence pulled out a contraption that looked like a bike pump with a corked bottle attached to the bottom end and had Artemis climb up onto his shoulders. She scraped a fleck of red paint off the upper third of the wall with a knife, opened the corked bottle, and tapped the paint inside. Replacing the cork, Artemis shook it up, causing Terence to wobble on his feet and clutch more tightly to her legs where they wrapped around his chest and under his arms. The inside of the bottle filled with pink foam and white blobs. Artemis then pressed the end of the black tube that would normally blow air on a bike pump against the spot on the wall where she’d scraped away the paint. As she depressed the plunger, the scarlet paint rippled as if under a stiff breeze and bled away, turning the walls bright pink and the trim from gold to a dull orange. It was a very ugly combination that made both Terence and Artemis giggle.

Accepting that no one was going to help him until all of the pranks were deployed, Harry grabbed a toolbox and went into the locker room, unscrewing the grate in the wall to get to the pipes and setting it up so that random showerheads spewed ice cold water. Cutting open a different pipe, inserting a pouch full of magical root cuttings, and sealing it up again, he set it up so that anyone showering with water from that pipe would erupt into what looked like pimples six to eight hours later that would turn into what looked like ladybugs two hours after that, complete with fluttering wings that tickled the skin like crazy, according to the pamphlet. It wore off five hours after that, but was so rare that most people probably didn’t know that and would take a bunch of gross potions first to try and get rid of it. Draco had ordered the prank roots from a small shop in Knockturn Alley that catered to wizards from Southeast Asia and insisted they use them once he learned he’d have to stay outside and serve as a distraction instead of getting to come inside and have fun. Harry was just glad he’d decided to use it on the Gryffindors instead of on his roommates.

Hopping down from Terence’s shoulders, Artemis went over to personally prank Skipper’s locker while Terence started in on any other locker that could be opened without too much trouble. Flint and Harry joined them, layering spells and powers and potions on almost everything, only leaving the occasional item untouched to really mess with their opponent’s minds and make them think that nothing was safe but that they were just too stupid to figure out what they were missing.

Finally they finished and turned to helping Harry open Hermione’s locker. It was in the reserve team area on the side of the room farthest from the showers and exit tunnel.

“Haven’t you even tried unlocking it yet?” Flint asked with a frown, casting a diagnostic spell on the door that Harry hadn’t learned yet. “And why does a second year need so many locking spells?”

Harry huffed. “I found four spells but was only able to get rid of one of them. When I tried opening it anyway I ended up blistering my hand.” He held out the burn.

Grunting, Flint went down on one knee to examine the bottom corner of the locker door. “I still count four, so you either failed to dispel that one for good or there were originally five.” He stood up again, cracked his back, and tucked away his wand.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked impatiently.

The corner of Flint’s lip twitched as he shrugged. “I can identify the spells, but I don’t actually know how to remove any of them. None of them were really taught in my classes. At least not on days I actually paid attention.”

Blowing out a hard breath, Harry ran a hand over his head, tugging hard at the strands at the back of his head before turning to Artemis and Terence. “What about you guys? Can you get through?” The look they exchanged did not fill Harry with confidence.

Artemis cast a few spells on the locker door, sat down cross-legged on the floor, and then cast a few more. The locker rattled and gave off sparks of yellow and purple light along with a sickly-sweet smell. “That’s two down,” she squinted. “I might be able to get the third on the latch, but that last spell—the one on the hinges—is probably beyond me.” She growled and shot another spell at the locker door. It ricocheted off and would’ve singed her hair if she hadn’t flung herself sideways. “Why can’t your girl be just a little more dumb?” She growled at Harry and shook her skinned knuckles, which had scraped into the edge of the bench and were now beading with blood.

“We’re running out of time,” Flint frowned over at the clock on the wall.

Harry sat down on the bench and put his head in his hands, fisting his hair painfully and then covering his face. Hermione was counting on him to figure out the clues. He couldn’t let her down again. He was too close! But he didn’t know what else to do. Kicking the locker wouldn’t help. He’d already tried that before the rest of them had shown up and still had the bruised toes and singed socks to prove it. His pinky toe was probably black and blue. 

“The whole point of sneaking in here was so I could get into Hermione’s locker,” he said into his hands, making his face prickle hot and damp as his breath became trapped by his clenching fingers. 

“Right, we need reinforcements,” Terence announced, jumping to his feet with a clatter as he knocked over a pile of empty boxers and potion bottles. “Hold the fort until I get back!” He ran for the door.

“Wair, what are you doing? We shouldn’t hang around and risk getting caught!” Flint tried to grab Terence as he slid by. He missed, the former Seeker too agile for the impromptu snatch. 

“I’ll be quick!” Terence promised over his shoulder with a reckless grin before opening the portrait door a crack, peeking out, and then sliding out into the hall.

Glaring at the closed door, Flint clenched his hands until his knuckles cracked and cursed under his breath. “Alright. Artemis, you keep trying to break those spells on the locker while Harry and I clean up. If Terence isn’t back in ten minutes, we’re leaving no matter what.”

“But—!” Harry started to protest until Flint gave him a sharp look, cutting him off.

“This was always a calculated risk. Getting caught won’t do you any good. Or us. For all we know that locker is empty. Come on, clean up while we wait.”

Bowing beneath the weight of Flint’s authority, no matter how much he didn’t like it, Harry stomped over to the pile of empty boxes of itching powder and mysterious potion bottles Terence had knocked over and began shoving them into the nearest bag, making sure he didn’t miss any hiding under a bench. He tried to focus on cleaning but his chest hurt. Sure, pranking the Gryffindor common room was a triumph, but it hadn’t been his main goal. It was hard to find much pleasure in that thought right now when he was feeling like such a failure. Relying on other people was hard. He just hoped that Terence could get back with someone in ten minutes who could break Hermione’s final locking spell, because if he didn’t, Harry didn’t know what he was going to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your patience and wonderfully supportive comments. I really appreciate them a lot! Thank you also to my wonderful Beta readers! I love seeing your ideas on what’s going to happen next or thoughts on what you just read. Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This story will span most of the years at Hogwarts. Some years (like first year) will be covered in a single chapter and others (like second year) might span five chapters or more. It all depends on the muse and what serves the plot. I hope you have as much fun reading this as I do writing it. Cheers!


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